generously made available by the internet archive.) university of nebraska studies in language, literature and criticism number astronomical lore in chaucer by florence m. grimm, a. m. _assistant in the university of nebraska library_ editorial committee louise pound, ph. d., department of english h. b. alexander, ph. d., department of philosophy f. w. sanford, a. b., department of latin. lincoln contents i. astronomy in the middle ages ii. chaucer's scientific knowledge iii. chaucer's cosmology iv. chaucer's astronomy v. astrological lore in chaucer appendix astronomical lore in chaucer i astronomy in the middle ages the conspicuousness of astronomical lore in the poetry of chaucer is due to its importance in the life of his century. in the mediaeval period, astronomy (or 'astrology,' for the two names were used indifferently to cover the same subject) was one of the vital interests of men. the ordinary man of the middle ages knew much more than do most men to-day about the phenomena of the heavens; conveniences such as clocks, almanacs, and charts representing celestial phenomena were rare, and direct observations of the apparent movements and the relative positions of the heavenly bodies were necessary for the regulation of man's daily occupations. furthermore, the belief in a geocentric system of the universe, which in chaucer's century was almost universally accepted, was of vast significance in man's way of thinking. accepting this view, all the heavenly bodies seemed to have been created for the sole benefit of man, inhabiting the central position in the universe; their movements, always with reference to the earth as a center, brought to man light, heat, changes of season--all the conditions that made human life possible on the earth. not only did the man of the middle ages see in the regular movements of the celestial spheres the instruments by which god granted him physical existence, but in the various aspects of heavenly phenomena he saw the governing principles of his moral life. the arrangement of the heavenly bodies with regard to one another at various times was supposed to exert undoubted power over the course of terrestrial events. each planet was thought to have special attributes and a special influence over men's lives. venus was the planet of love, mars, of war and hostility, the sun, of power and honor, and so forth. each was mysteriously connected with a certain color, with a metal, too, the alchemists said, and each had special power over some organ of the human body. the planet's influence was believed to vary greatly according to its position in the heavens, so that to determine a man's destiny accurately it was necessary to consider the aspect of the whole heavens, especially at the moment of his birth, but also at other times. this was called "casting the horoscope" and was regarded as of great importance in enabling a man to guard against threatening perils or bad tendencies, and to make the best use of favorable opportunities. it is not astonishing, then, that the great monuments of literature in the mediaeval period and even much later are filled with astronomical and astrological allusions; for these are but reflections of vital human interests of the times. the greatest poetical work of the middle ages, dante's _divina commedia_, is rich in astronomical lore, and its dramatic action is projected against a cosmographical background reflecting the view of dante's contemporaries as to the structure of the world. milton, writing in the seventeenth century, bases the cosmology of his _paradise lost_ in the main on the ptolemaic system, but makes adam and the archangel raphael discuss the relative merits of this system and the heliocentric view of the universe. the latter had been brought forth by copernicus a century earlier, but even in milton's day had not yet succeeded in supplanting the old geocentric cosmology. the view of the universe which we find reflected in chaucer's poetry is chiefly based on the ptolemaic system of astronomy, though it shows traces of very much more primitive cosmological ideas. the ptolemaic system owes its name to the famous alexandrian astronomer of the second century a. d., claudius ptolemy, but is based largely on the works and discoveries of the earlier greek philosophers and astronomers, especially eudoxus, hipparchus, and aristarchus, whose investigations ptolemy compiled and, along some lines, extended. ptolemaic astronomy was a purely geometrical or mathematical system which represented the observed movements and relative positions of the heavenly bodies so accurately that calculations as to their positions at any given time could be based upon it. ptolemy agreed with his contemporaries in the opinion that to assign causes for the celestial movements was outside the sphere of the astronomer. this was a proper field of philosophy; and the decisions of philosophers, especially those of aristotle, were regarded as final, and their teaching as the basis upon which observed phenomena should be described. according to the ptolemaic system the earth is a motionless sphere fixed at the center of the universe. it can have no motion, for there must be some fixed point in the universe to which all the motions of the heavenly bodies may be referred; if the earth had motion, it was argued, this would be proportionate to the great mass of the earth and would cause objects and animals to fly off into the air and be left behind. ptolemy believed this reason sufficient to make untenable the idea of a rotatory motion of the earth, although he was fully aware that to suppose such a motion of the earth would simplify exceedingly the representations of the celestial movements. it did not occur to him that to suppose the earth's atmosphere to participate in its motion would obviate this difficulty. the earth was but a point in comparison with the immense sphere to which the stars were attached and which revolved about the earth once in every twenty-four hours, imparting its motion to sun, moon, and planets, thus causing day and night and the rising and setting of the heavenly bodies. the irregular motions of the planets were accounted for by supposing them to move on circles of small spheres called 'epicycles', the centres of which moved around the 'deferents', or circles of large spheres which carried the planets in courses concentric to the star sphere. by giving each of the planets an epicycle and deferent of the proper relative size and velocity the varied oscillations of the planets, as far as they could be followed by means of the simple instruments then in use, were almost perfectly accounted for. though it was a purely mathematical system which only attempted to give a basis for computing celestial motions, ptolemaic astronomy is of great importance historically as it remained the foundation of theoretical astronomy for more than years. throughout the long dark centuries of the middle ages it survived in the studies of the retired students of the monasteries and of the few exceptionally enlightened men who still had some regard for pagan learning in the days when many of the church fathers denounced it as heretical. ptolemy was the last of the great original greek astronomers. the alexandrian school produced, after him, only copyists and commentators, and the theoretical astronomy of the greeks, so highly perfected in ptolemy's _almagest_, was for many centuries almost entirely neglected. the roman state gave no encouragement to the study of theoretical astronomy and produced no new school of astronomy. although it was the fashion for a roman to have a smattering of greek astronomy, and famous latin authors like cicero, seneca, strabo and pliny wrote on astronomy, yet the romans cared little for original investigations and contributed nothing new to the science. the romans, however, appreciated the value of astronomy in measuring time, and applied to the alexandrian school to satisfy their practical need for a calendar. what julius caesar obtained from the alexandrian sosigenes, he greatly improved and gave to the empire, as the calendar which, with the exception of the slight change made by gregory xiii, we still use. the pseudo-astronomical science of astrology, or the so-called 'judicial astronomy' was pursued during the roman empire and throughout the middle ages with much greater zeal than theoretical astronomy. the interest in astrology, to be sure, encouraged the study of observational astronomy to a certain extent; for the casting of horoscopes to foretell destinies required that the heavenly bodies be observed and methods of calculating their positions at any time or place be known. but there was no desire to inquire into the underlying laws of the celestial motions or to investigate the real nature of the heavenly phenomena. if the roman state did not encourage astronomy, the roman church positively discouraged it. the bible became and long remained the sole authority recognized by the church fathers as to the constitution of the universe. by many of the patristics ptolemaic astronomy was despised; not because it did not describe accurately the observed phenomena of the heavens, for it did this in a way that could scarcely have been improved upon with the facilities for observation then available; and not because it was founded upon the false assumption that the earth is the motionless center of the universe about which all heavenly bodies revolve; but because there was no authority in scripture for such a system, and it could not possibly be made consistent with the cosmology of genesis. allegorical descriptions of the universe based on the scriptures held almost complete sway over the mediaeval mind. the whole universe was represented allegorically by the tabernacle and its furniture. the earth was flat and rectangular like the table of shew bread, and surrounded on all four sides by the ocean. the walls of heaven beyond this supported the firmament shaped like a half-cylinder. angels moved the sun, moon, and stars across the firmament and let down rain through its windows from the expanse of water above. by no means all of the early church fathers were wholly without appreciation of the fruits of greek astronomical science. origen and clement of alexandria, while believing in the scriptural allegories, tried to reconcile them with the results of pagan learning. in the west, ambrose of milan and later augustine, were at least not opposed to the idea of the earth's sphericity, and of the existence of antipodes, although they could not get away from the queer notion of the waters above the firmament. a few enlightened students like philoponus of alexandria, isidore of seville, the venerable bede, and irish scholars like fergil and dicuil, studied the greek philosophers and accepted some of the pagan scientific teachings. fortunately the study of those ancient latin writers whose works had preserved some of the astronomy of the greeks had taken firm root among the patient scholars of the monasteries, and slowly but steadily the geocentric system of cosmology was making its way back into the realm of generally accepted fact, so that by the ninth century it was the system adopted by nearly all scholars. about the year began the impetus to learning which culminated in the great revival of the renaissance. one cause of this intellectual awakening was the contact of europe with arab culture through the crusades and through the saracens in sicily and the moors in spain. the arabian influence resulted in an increased sense of the importance of astronomy and astrology; for, while the scholars of the christian world had been devising allegorical representations of the world based on sacred literature, the arabian scholars had been delving into greek science, translating ptolemy and aristotle, and trying to make improvements upon ptolemaic astronomy. the spheres of the planets, which ptolemy had almost certainly regarded as purely symbolical, the arabs conceived as having concrete existence. this made it necessary to add a ninth sphere to the eight mentioned by ptolemy; for it was thought sufficient that the eighth sphere should carry the stars and give them their slow movement of precession from west to east. this ninth sphere was the outermost of all and it originated the "prime motion" by communicating to all the inner spheres its diurnal revolution from east to west. in mediaeval astronomy it came to be known as the _primum mobile_ or "first movable," while a tenth and motionless sphere was added as the abode of god and redeemed souls. the sun and moon were included among the planets, which revolved about the earth in the order moon, mercury, venus, sun, mars, jupiter, saturn. at first the astronomy taught in the universities was based on latin translations of arabic commentaries and paraphrases of aristotle, which had made their way into europe through the moors in spain. for several centuries aristotle represented in the eyes of most scholastics "the last possibility of wisdom and learning." but by the middle of the thirteenth century ptolemy began to be rediscovered. the ptolemaic system of planetary motions was briefly described in a handbook compiled by john halifax of holywood, better known as sacrobosco. roger bacon wrote on the spheres, the use of the astrolabe, and astrology, following ptolemy in his general ideas about the universe. the great mediaeval scholar and philosopher, thomas aquinas, was also familiar with the ptolemaic system; but to most of the men of the thirteenth century ptolemy's works remained quite unknown. the real revival of greek astronomy took place in the fourteenth century when scholars began to realize that new work in astronomy must be preceded by a thorough knowledge of the astronomy of the alexandrian school as exhibited in the _syntaxis_ of ptolemy. it was then that greek and latin manuscripts of works on astronomy began to be eagerly sought for and deciphered, and a firm foundation constructed for the revival of theoretical astronomy. ii chaucer's scientific knowledge it was in the fourteenth century that chaucer lived and wrote, and his interest in astronomical lore is, therefore, not surprising. although the theories of astronomy current in chaucer's century have been made untenable by the _de revolutionibus orbium_ of copernicus, and by kepler's discovery of the laws of planetary motion; although the inaccurate and unsatisfactory methods of astronomical investigation then in use have been supplanted by the better methods made possible through galileo's invention of the telescope and through the modern use of spectrum analysis; yet, of all scientific subjects, the astronomy of that period could most nearly lay claim to the name of science according to the present acceptation of the term. for, as we have seen, the interest in astrology during the middle ages had fostered the study of observational astronomy, and this in turn had furnished the science a basis of fact and observation far surpassing in detail and accuracy that of any other subject. practically all of chaucer's writings contain some reference to the movements and relative positions of the heavenly bodies, and to their influence on human and mundane affairs, and in some of his works, especially the treatise on _the astrolabe_, a very technical and detailed knowledge of astronomical and astrological lore is displayed. there is every reason to suppose that, so far as it satisfied his purposes, chaucer had made himself familiar with the whole literature of astronomical science. his familiarity with ptolemaic astronomy is shown in his writings both by specific mention[ ] of the name of ptolemy and his _syntaxis_, commonly known as the 'almagest,' and by many more general astronomical references. even more convincing evidence of chaucer's knowledge of the scientific literature of his time is given in his _treatise on the astrolabe_. according to skeat, part i and at least two-thirds of part ii are taken, with some expansion and alteration, from a work on the astrolabe by messahala[ ], called, in the latin translation which chaucer used, "compositio et operatio astrolabie." this work may have been ultimately derived from a sanskrit copy, but from chaucer's own words in the _prologue to the astrolabe_[ ] it is clear that he made use of the latin work. the rest of part ii may have been derived from some general compendium of astronomical and astrological knowledge, or from some other of the treatises on the astrolabe which chaucer says were common in his time.[ ] other sources mentioned by chaucer in _the astrolabe_ are the calendars of john some and nicholas lynne, carmelite friars who wrote calendars constructed for the meridian of oxford[ ]; and of the arabian astronomer abdilazi alkabucius.[ ] in _the frankeleyns tale_ chaucer mentions the tabulae toletanae,[ ] a set of tables composed by order of alphonso x, king of castile, and so called because they were adapted to the city of toledo. works which served chaucer not as sources of information on scientific subjects but as models for the treatment of astronomical lore in literature were the _de consolatione philosophiae_ of boethius, which chaucer translated and often made use of in his poetry; and the works of dante, whose influence on chaucer, probably considerable, has been pointed out by several writers, notably rambeau[ ] who discusses the parallels between _the hous of fame_ and the _divina commedia_. iii chaucer's cosmology chaucer wrote no poetical work having a cosmographical background as completely set forth as is that in dante's _divine comedy_ or that in milton's _paradise lost_. although his cosmological references are often incidental they are not introduced in a pedantic manner. whenever they are not parts of interpolations from other writers his use of them is due to their intimate relation to the life his poetry portrays or to his appreciation of their poetic value. when chaucer says, for example, that the sun has grown old and shines in capricorn with a paler light than is his wont, he is not using a merely conventional device for showing that winter has come, but is expressing this fact in truly poetic manner and in words quite comprehensible to the men of his day, who were accustomed to think of time relations in terms of heavenly phenomena. popular and scientific views of the universe in chaucer's century were by no means the same. the untaught man doubtless still thought of the earth as being flat, as it appears to be, as bounded by the waters of the ocean, and as covered by a dome-like material firmament through which the waters above sometimes came as rain; while, as we have seen, by the fourteenth century among scholars the geocentric system of astronomy was firmly established and the spheres and epicycles of ptolemy were becoming more widely known. it is the view held by the educated men of his century that chaucer's poetry chiefly reflects. . _the celestial spheres and their movements_ when we read chaucer we are transported into a world in which the heavenly bodies and their movements seem to bear a more intimate relation to human life than they do in the world in which we live. the thought of the revolving spheres carrying sun, moon, and planets, regulating light and heat on the earth, and exercising a mysterious influence over terrestrial events and human destiny was a sublime conception and one that naturally appealed to the imagination of a poet. chaucer was impressed alike by the vastness of the revolving spheres in comparison to the earth's smallness, by their orderly arrangement, and by the unceasing regularity of their appearance which seemed to show that they should eternally abide. in the _parlement of foules_ he interpolates a passage from cicero's _somnium scipionis_ in which africanus appears to the sleeping scipio, points out to him the insignificance of our little earth when compared with the vastness of the heavens and then admonishes him to regard the things of this world as of little importance when compared with the joys of the heavenly life to come.[ ] "than shewed he him the litel erthe, that heer is, at regard of the hevenes quantite; and after shewed he him the nyne speres." the regular arrangement of the planetary spheres clings often to the poet's fancy and he makes many allusions to their order in the heavens. he speaks of mars as "the thridde hevenes lord above"[ ] and of venus as presiding over the "fifte cercle."[ ] in _troilus and criseyde_ the poet invokes venus as the adorning light of the third heaven.[ ] "o blisful light, of which the bemes clere adorneth al the thridde hevene faire!"[ ] mediaeval astronomers as we have seen, imagined nine spheres, each of the seven innermost carrying with it one of the planets in the order mentioned below; the eighth sphere was that of the fixed stars, and to account for the precession of the equinoxes, men supposed it to have a slow motion from west to east, round the axis of the zodiac; the ninth or outermost sphere they called the _primum mobile_, or the sphere of first motion, and supposed it to revolve daily from east to west, carrying all the other spheres with it. the thought of the two outer spheres, the _primum mobile_, whirling along with it all the inner spheres, and the firmament, bearing hosts of bright stars, seems to have appealed strongly to the poet's imagination. in the _tale of the man of lawe_ the _primum mobile_ is described as crowding and hurling in diurnal revolution from east to west all the spheres that would naturally follow the slow course of the zodiac from west to east.[ ] elsewhere the _primum mobile_ is called the "whele that bereth the sterres" and is said to turn the heavens with a "ravisshing sweigh:" "o thou maker of the whele that bereth the sterres, which that art y-fastned to thy perdurable chayer, and tornest the hevene with a ravisshing sweigh, and constreinest the sterres to suffren thy lawe;"[ ] the firmament, which in chaucer is not restricted to the eighth sphere but generally refers to the whole expanse of the heavens, is many times mentioned by chaucer; and its appearance on clear or cloudy nights, its changing aspects before an impending storm or with the coming of dawn, beautifully described.[ ] . _the harmony of the spheres_ some of the cosmological ideas reflected in chaucer's writings can be traced back to systems older than the ptolemaic. the beautiful fancy that the universe is governed by harmony had its origin in the philosophy of the pythagoreans in the fourth century b. c., and continued to appeal to men's imagination until the end of the middle ages. it was thought that the distances of the planetary spheres from one another correspond to the intervals of a musical scale and that each sphere as it revolves sounds one note of the scale. when asked why men could not hear the celestial harmony, the pythagoreans said: a blacksmith is deaf to the continuous, regular beat of the hammers in his shop; so we are deaf to the music which the spheres have been sending forth from eternity. in ancient and mediaeval cosmology it was only the seven spheres of the planets that were generally supposed to participate in this celestial music; but the poets have taken liberties with this idea and have given it to us in forms suiting their own fancies. milton bids all the celestial spheres join in the heavenly melody: "ring out, ye crystal spheres, once bless our human ears, if ye have power to touch our senses so; and let your silver chime move in melodious time, and let the base of heaven's deep organ blow; and with your ninefold harmony, make up full consort to the angelic symphony."[ ] shakespeare lets every orb of the heavens send forth its note as it moves: "there's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;"[ ] chaucer, too, makes all nine spheres participate: "and after that the melodye herde he that cometh of thilke speres thryes three, that welle is of musyke and melodye in this world heer, and cause of armonye."[ ] only in unusual circumstances can the music of the spheres be heard by mortal ears. in the lines just quoted the celestial melody is heard during a dream or vision. in _troilus and criseyde_, after troilus' death his spirit is borne aloft to heaven whence he beholds the celestial orbs and hears the melody sent forth as they revolve: "and ther he saugh, with ful avysement, the erratik sterres, herkeninge armonye with sownes fulle of hevenish melodye."[ ] . _the cardinal points and the regions of the world_ more primitive in origin than the harmony of the spheres are references to the four elements, to the divisions of the world, and to the cardinal points or quarters of the earth. of these, probably the most primitive is the last. the idea of four cardinal points, the "before," the "behind," the "right," and the "left," later given the names north, south, east, and west, appears among peoples in their very earliest stages of civilization, and because of its great usefulness has remained and probably will remain throughout the history of the human race. only one of chaucer's many references to the cardinal points need be mentioned. in the _man of lawes tale_ (b. ff.) the cardinal points are first suggested by an allusion to the four 'spirits of tempest,' which were supposed to have their respective abodes in the four quarters of earth, and then specifically named in the lines following: "who bad the foure spirits of tempest, that power han tanoyen land and see, 'bothe north and south, and also west and est, anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?'" of almost equal antiquity are ideas of the universe as a threefold world having heaven above, earth below, and a region of darkness and gloom beneath the earth. chaucer usually speaks of the threefold world, the "tryne compas," as comprising heaven, earth and sea. thus in the _knightes tale_:[ ] "'o chaste goddesse of the wodes grene, to whom bothe hevene and erthe and see is sene, quene of the regne of pluto derk and lowe,'" fame's palace is said to stand midway between heaven, earth and sea: "hir paleys stant, as i shal seye, right even in middes of the weye betwixen hevene, erthe, and see;"[ ] again in _the seconde nonnes tale_, the name 'tryne compas' is used of the threefold world and the three regions are mentioned: "that of the tryne compas lord and gyde is, whom erthe and see and heven, out of relees, ay herien;"[ ] . _heaven, hell and purgatory_ in mediaeval cosmology ideas of heaven, hell, and purgatory, as more or less definitely located regions where the spirits of the dead were either rewarded or punished eternally, or were purged of their earthly sins in hope of future blessedness, play an important part. according to dante's poetic conception hell was a conical shaped pit whose apex reached to the center of the earth, purgatory was a mountain on the earth's surface on the summit of which was located the garden of eden or the earthly paradise, and heaven was a motionless region beyond space and time, the motionless sphere outside of the _primum mobile_, called the empyrean. chaucer's allusions to heaven, hell and purgatory are frequent but chiefly incidental and give no such definite idea of their location as we find in the _divine comedy_. the nearest chaucer comes to indicating the place of heaven is in _the parlement of foules_, - , where africanus speaks of heaven and then points to the galaxy: "and rightful folk shal go, after they dye, to heven; and shewed him the galaxye." chaucer describes heaven as "swift and round and burning", thus to some extent departing from the conception of it usually held in his time: "and right so as thise philosophres wryte that heven is swift and round and eek brenninge, right so was fayre cecilie the whyte."[ ] in using the terms "swift and round" chaucer must have been thinking of the _primum mobile_ which, as we have seen, was thought to have a swift diurnal motion from east to west. his use of the epithet "burning" is in conformity with the mediaeval conception of the empyrean, or heaven of pure light as it is described by dante. chaucer does not describe the form and location of hell as definitely as does dante, but the idea which he presents of it by incidental allusions, whether or not this was the view of it he himself held, is practically the one commonly held in his day. that hell is located somewhere within the depths of the earth is suggested in the _knightes tale_;[ ]-- "his felawe wente and soghte him down in helle;" and in the _man of lawes tale_;[ ] "o serpent under femininitee, lyk to the serpent depe in helle y-bounde," in the _persones tale_ hell is described as a horrible pit to which no natural light penetrates, filled with smoking flames and presided over by devils who await an opportunity to draw sinful souls to their punishment.[ ] elsewhere in the same tale the parson describes hell as a region of disorder, the only place in the world not subject to the universal laws of nature, and attributes this idea of it to job: "and eek iob seith: that 'in helle is noon ordre of rule.' and al-be-it so that god hath creat alle thinges in right ordre, and no-thing with-outen ordre, but alle thinges been ordeyned and nombred; yet nathelees they that been dampned been no-thing in ordre, ne holden noon ordre."[ ] the word purgatory seldom occurs in a literal sense in chaucer's poetry, but the figurative use of it is frequent. when the wife of bath is relating her experiences in married life she tells us that she was her fourth husband's purgatory.[ ] the old man, ianuarie[ ], contemplating marriage, fears that he may lose hope of heaven hereafter, because he will have his heaven here on earth in the joys of wedded life. his friend iustinus sarcastically tells him that perhaps his wife will be his purgatory, god's instrument of punishment, so that when he dies his soul will skip to heaven quicker than an arrow from the bow. to arcite, released from prison on condition that he never again enter theseus' lands, banishment will be a worse fate than the purgatory of life imprisonment, for then even the sight of emelye will be denied him: "he seyde, 'allas that day that i was born! now is my prison worse than biforn; now is me shape eternally to dwelle noght in purgatorie, but in helle.'"[ ] the idea of purgatory, not as a place definitely located like dante's mount of purgatory, but rather as a period of punishment and probation, is expressed in these lines from _the parlement of foules_ ( - ): "'but brekers of the lawe, soth to seyne, and lecherous folk, after that they be dede, shul alwey whirle aboute therthe in peyne, til many a world be passed, out of drede, and than, for-yeven alle hir wikked dede, than shul they come unto that blisful place, to which to comen god thee sende his grace!'" chaucer uses the idea of paradise for poetical purposes quite as often as that of purgatory. he expresses the highest degree of earthly beauty or joy by comparing it with paradise. criseyde's face is said to be like the image of paradise.[ ] again, in extolling the married life, the poet says that its virtues are such "'that in this world it is a paradys.'"[ ] and later in the same tale, woman is spoken of as "mannes help and his confort, his paradys terrestre and his disport."[ ] when aeneas reaches carthage he "is come to paradys out of the swolow of helle, and thus in ioye remembreth him of his estat in troye."[ ] chaucer mentions paradise several times in its literal sense as the abode of adam and eve before their fall. in the _monkes tale_ we are told that adam held sway over all paradise excepting one tree.[ ] again, the pardoner speaks of the expulsion of adam and eve from paradise: "adam our fader, and his wyf also, fro paradys to labour and to wo were driven for that vyce, it is no drede; for whyl that adam fasted, as i rede, he was in paradys; and whan that he eet of the fruyt defended on the tree, anon he was out-cast to we and peyne."[ ] . _the four elements._ the idea of four elements[ ] has its origin in the attempts of the early greek cosmologists to discover the ultimate principle of reality in the universe. thales reached the conclusion that this principle was water, anaximines, that it was air, and heracleitus, fire, while parmenides supposed two elements, fire or light, subtle and rarefied, and earth or night, dense and heavy. empedocles of agrigentum (about b. c.) assumed as primary elements all four--fire, air, water, and earth--of which each of his predecessors had assumed only one or two. to explain the manifold phenomena of nature he supposed them to be produced by combinations of the elements in different proportions through the attractive and repulsive forces of 'love' and 'discord.' this arbitrary assumption of four elements, first made by empedocles, persisted in the popular imagination throughout the middle ages and is, like other cosmological ideas of antiquity, sometimes reflected in the poetry of the time. the elements in mediaeval cosmology were assigned to a definite region of the universe. being mortal and imperfect they occupied four spheres below the moon, the elemental region or region of imperfection, as distinguished from the ethereal region above the moon. immediately within the sphere of the moon came that of fire, below this the air, then water, and lowest of all the solid sphere of earth. fire being the most ethereal of the elements constantly tends to rise upward, while earth sinks towards the center of the universe. this contrast is a favorite idea with dante, who says in the _paradiso_ i. - : "'wherefore they move to diverse ports o'er the great sea of being, and each one with instinct given it to bear it on. this beareth the fire toward the moon; this is the mover in the hearts of things that die; this doth draw the earth together and unite it.'" elsewhere dante describes the lightning as fleeing its proper place when it strikes the earth: "'but lightning, fleeing its proper site, ne'er darted as dost thou who art returning thither.'"[ ] and again: "'so from this course sometimes departeth the creature that hath power, thus thrust, to swerve to-ward some other part, (even as fire may be seen to dart down from the cloud) if its first rush be wrenched aside to earth by false seeming pleasure.'"[ ] the same thought of the tendency of fire to rise and of earth to sink is found in chaucer's translation of boethius:[ ] "thou bindest the elements by noumbres proporcionables, ... that the fyr, that is purest, ne flee nat over hye, ne that the hevinesse ne drawe nat adoun over-lowe the erthes that ben plounged in the wateres." chaucer does not make specific mention of the spheres of the elements, but he tells us plainly that each element has been assigned its proper region from which it may not escape: "for with that faire cheyne of love he bond the fyr, the eyr, the water, and the lond in certeyn boundes, that they may nat flee;"[ ] the position of the elements in the universe is nevertheless made clear without specific reference to their respective spheres. the spirit of the slain troilus ascends through the spheres to the seventh heaven, leaving behind the elements: "and whan that he was slayn in this manere, his lighte goost ful blisfully is went up to the holownesse of the seventh spere, in converse letinge every element."[ ] "every element" here obviously means the sphere of each element; "holownesse" means concavity and "in convers" means 'on the reverse side.' the meaning of the passage is, then, that troilus' spirit ascends to the concave side of the seventh sphere from which he can look down upon the spheres of the elements, which have their convex surfaces towards him. this passage is of particular interest for the further reason that it shows that even in chaucer's century people still thought of the spheres as having material existence. the place and order of the elements is more definitely suggested in a passage from _boethius_ in which philosophical contemplation is figuratively described as an ascent of thought upward through the spheres: "'i have, forsothe, swifte fetheres that surmounten the heighte of hevene. when the swifte thought hath clothed it-self in the fetheres, it despyseth the hateful erthes, and surmounteth the roundnesse of the grete ayr; and it seeth the cloudes behinde his bak; and passeth the heighte of the region of the fyr, that eschaufeth by the swifte moevinge of the firmament, til that he areyseth him in-to the houses that beren the sterres, and ioyneth his weyes with the sonne phebus, and felawshipeth the wey of the olde colde saturnus.'"[ ] in this passage all the elemental regions except that of water are alluded to and in the order which, in the middle ages, they were supposed to follow. when in the _hous of fame_, chaucer is borne aloft into the heavens by jupiter's eagle, he is reminded of this passage in boethius and alludes to it: "and tho thoughte i upon boece, that writ, 'a thought may flee so hye, with fetheres of philosophye, to passen everich element; and whan he hath so fer y-went, than may be seen, behind his bak, cloud, and al that i of spak.'"[ ] empedocles, as we have seen, taught that the variety in the universe was caused by the binding together of the four elements in different proportions through the harmonizing principle of love, or by their separation through hate, the principle of discord. we find this idea also reflected in chaucer who obviously got it from boethius. love is the organizing principle of the universe; if the force of love should in any wise abate, all things would strive against each other and the universe be transformed into chaos.[ ] the elements were thought to be distinguished from one another by peculiar natures or attributes. thus the nature of fire was _hot_ and _dry_, that of water _cold_ and _moist_, that of air _cold_ and _dry_, and that of earth _hot_ and _moist_.[ ] chaucer alludes to these distinguishing attributes of the elements a number of times, as, for example, in _boethius_, iii.: metre . ff.: "thou bindest the elements by noumbres proporciounables, that the colde thinges mowen acorden with the hote thinges, and the drye thinges with the moiste thinges"; in conclusion it should be said that all creatures occupying the elemental region or realm of imperfection below the moon were thought to have been created not directly by god but by nature as his "vicaire" or deputy, or, in other words, by an inferior agency. chaucer alludes to this in _the parlement of foules_ briefly thus: "nature, the vicaire of thalmyghty lorde, that hoot, cold, hevy, light, (and) moist and dreye hath knit by even noumbre of acorde,"[ ] and more at length in _the phisiciens tale_. chaucer says of the daughter of virginius that nature had formed her of such excellence that she might have said of her creation: "'lo! i, nature, thus can i forme and peynte a creature, whan that me list; who can me countrefete? pigmalion noght, though he ay forge and bete, or grave, or peynte; for i dar wel seyn, apelles, zanzis, sholde werche in veyn, outher to grave or peynte or forge or bete, if they presumed me to countrefete. for he that is the former principal hath maked me his vicaire general, to forme and peynten erthely creaturis right as me list, and ech thing in my cure is under the mone, that may wane and waxe, and for my werk right no-thing wol i axe; my lord and i ben ful of oon accord; i made hir to the worship of my lord.'"[ ] what is of especial interest for our purposes is found in the five lines of this passage beginning "for he that is the former principal," etc. "former principal" means 'creator principal' or the chief creator. god is the chief creator; therefore there must be other or inferior creators. nature is a creator of inferior rank whom god has made his "vicaire" or deputy and whose work it is to create and preside over all things beneath the sphere of the moon. iv chaucer's astronomy chaucer's treatment of astronomical lore in his poetry differs much from his use of it in his prose writings. in poetical allusions to heavenly phenomena, much attention to detail and a pedantic regard for accuracy would be inappropriate. references to astronomy in chaucer's poetry are, as a rule rather brief, specific but not technical, often purely conventional but always truly poetic. there are, indeed, occasional passages in chaucer's poetry showing so detailed a knowledge of observational[ ] astronomy that they would seem astonishing and, to many people, out of place, in modern poetry. they were not so in chaucer's time, when the exigencies of practical life demanded of the ordinary man a knowledge of astronomy far surpassing that possessed by most of our contemporaries. harry bailly in the _introduction to the man of lawes tale_ determines the day of the month and hour of the day by making calculations from the observed position of the sun in the sky, and from the length of shadows, although, says chaucer, "he were not depe expert in lore."[ ] such references to technical details of astronomy as we find in this passage are, however, not common in chaucer's poetry; in his _treatise on the astrolabe_, on the other hand, a professedly scientific work designed to instruct his young son louis in those elements of astronomy and astrology that were necessary for learning the use of the astrolabe, we have sufficient evidence that he was thoroughly familiar with the technical details of the astronomical science of his day. in chaucer's poetry the astronomical references employed are almost wholly of two kinds: references showing the time of day or season of the year at which the events narrated are supposed to take place; and figurative allusions for purposes of illustration or comparison. figurative uses of astronomy in chaucer vary from simple similes as in the _prologue to the canterbury tales_, where the friar's eyes are compared to twinkling stars[ ] to extended allegories like the _compleynt of mars_ in which the myth of venus and mars is related by describing the motions of the planets venus and mars for a certain period during which venus overtakes mars, they are in conjunction[ ] for a short time, and then venus because of her greater apparent velocity leaves mars behind. one of the most magnificent astronomical figures employed by chaucer is in the _hous of fame_. chaucer looks up into the heavens and sees a great golden eagle near the sun, a sight so splendid that men could never have beheld its equal 'unless the heaven had won another sun:' "hit was of golde, and shone so bright, that never saw men such a sighte, but-if the heven hadde y-wonne al newe of golde another sonne; so shoon the egles fethres brighte, and somwhat dounward gan hit lighte."[ ] besides mentioning the heavenly bodies in time references and figurative allusions, chaucer also employs them often in descriptions of day and night, of dawn and twilight, and of the seasons. it is with a poet's joy in the warm spring sun that he writes: "bright was the day, and blew the firmament, phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent, to gladen every flour with his warmnesse."[ ] and with a poet's delight in the new life and vigor that nature puts forth when spring comes that he writes the lines: "forgeten had the erthe his pore estat of winter, that him naked made and mat, and with his swerd of cold so sore greved; now hath the atempre sonne al that releved that naked was, and clad hit new agayn."[ ] chaucer's astronomical allusions, then, except in the _treatise on the astrolabe_ and in his translation of _boethius de consolatione philosophiae_, in which a philosophical interest in celestial phenomena is displayed, are almost invariably employed with poetic purpose. these poetical allusions to heavenly phenomena, however, together with the more technical and detailed references in chaucer's prose works give evidence of a rather extensive knowledge of astronomy. with all of the important observed movements of the heavenly bodies he was perfectly familiar and it is rather remarkable how many of these he uses in his poetry without giving one the feeling that he is airing his knowledge. . _the sun_ of all the heavenly bodies the one most often mentioned and employed for poetic purposes by chaucer is the sun. chaucer has many epithets for the sun, but speaks of him perhaps most often in the classical manner as phebus or apollo. he is called the "golden tressed phebus"[ ] or the "laurer-crowned phebus;"[ ] and when he makes mars flee from venus' palace he is called the "candel of ielosye."[ ] in the following passage chaucer uses three different epithets for the sun within two lines: "the dayes honour, and the hevenes ye, the nightes fo, al this clepe i the sonne, gan westren faste, and dounward for to wrye, as he that hadde his dayes cours y-ronne;"[ ] sometimes chaucer gives the sun the various accessories with which classical myth had endowed him--the four swift steeds, the rosy chariot and fiery torches: "and phebus with his rosy carte sone gan after that to dresse him up to fare."[ ] "'now am i war that pirous and tho swifte stedes three, which that drawen forth the sonnes char, hath goon some by-path in despyt of me;'"[ ] "phebus, that was comen hastely within the paleys-yates sturdely, with torche in honde, of which the stremes brighte on venus chambre knokkeden ful lighte."[ ] almost always when chaucer wishes to mention the time of day at which the events he is relating take place, he does so by describing the sun's position in the sky or the direction of his motion. we can imagine that chaucer often smiled as he did this, for he sometimes humorously apologizes for his poetical conceits and conventions by expressing his idea immediately afterwards in perfectly plain terms. such is the case in the passage already quoted where chaucer refers to the sun by the epithets "dayes honour," "hevenes ye," and "nightes fo" and then explains them by saying "al this clepe i the sonne;" and in the lines: "til that the brighte sonne loste his hewe; for thorisonte hath reft the sonne his light;" explained by the simple words: "this is as muche to seye as it was night."[ ] thus it is that chaucer's poetic references to the apparent daily motion of the sun about the earth are nearly always simply in the form of allusions to his rising and setting. canacee in the _squieres tale_, (f. ff.) is said to rise at dawn, looking as bright and fresh as the spring sun risen four degrees from the horizon. "up ryseth fresshe canacee hir-selve, as rody and bright as dooth the yonge sonne, that in the ram[ ] is four degrees up-ronne; noon hyer was he, whan she redy was;" many of these references to the rising and setting of the sun might be mentioned, if space permitted, simply for their beauty as poetry. one of the most beautiful is the following: "and fyry phebus ryseth up so brighte, that al the orient laugheth of the lighte, and with his stremes dryeth in the greves the silver dropes, hanging on the leves."[ ] when, in the _canterbury tales_, the manciple has finished his tale, chaucer determines the time by observing the position of the sun and by making calculations from the length of his own shadow: "by that the maunciple hadde his tale al ended, the sonne fro the south lyne was descended so lowe, that he nas nat, to my sighte, degrees nyne and twenty as in highte. foure of the clokke it was tho, as i gesse; for eleven foot, or litel more or lesse, my shadwe was at thilke tyme, as there, of swich feet as my lengthe parted were in six feet equal of porporcioun."[ ] we must not omit mention of the humorous touch with which chaucer, in the mock heroic tale of _chanticleer and the fox_ told by the nun's priest, makes even the rooster determine the time of day by observing the altitude of the sun in the sky: "chauntecleer, in al his pryde, his seven wyves walkyng by his syde, caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne, that in the signe of taurus hadde y-ronne twenty degrees and oon, and somewhat more; and knew by kynde, and by noon other lore, that it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene. 'the sonne,' he sayde, 'is clomben up on hevene fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis.'"[ ] moreover, this remarkable rooster observed that the sun had passed the twenty-first degree in taurus, and we are told elsewhere that he knew each ascension of the equinoctial and crew at each; that is, he crew every hour, as ° of the equinoctial correspond to an hour: "wel sikerer was his crowing in his logge, than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge. by nature knew he ech ascencioun[ ] of th' equinoxial in thilke toun; for whan degrees fiftene were ascended, thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben amended."[ ] chaucer announces the approach of evening by describing the position and appearance of the sun more often than any other time of the day. in the _legend of good women_ he speaks of the sun's leaving the south point[ ] of his daily course and approaching the west: "whan that the sonne out of the south gan weste,"[ ] and again of his westward motion in the lines: "and whan that hit is eve, i rene blyve, as sone as ever the sonne ginneth weste,"[ ] elsewhere chaucer refers to the setting of the sun by saying that he has completed his "ark divine" and may no longer remain on the horizon,[ ] or by saying that the 'horizon has bereft the sun of his light.'[ ] chaucer's references to the daily motion of the sun about the earth are apt to sound to us like purely poetical figures, so accustomed are we to refer to the sun, what we know to be the earth's rotatory motion, by speaking of his apparent daily motion thus figuratively as if it were real. chaucer's manner of describing the revolution of the heavenly bodies about the earth and his application of poetic epithets to them are figurative, but the motion itself was meant literally and was believed in by the men of his century, because only the geocentric system of astronomy was then known. if chaucer had been in advance of his century in this respect there would certainly be some hint of the fact in his writings. references in chaucer to the sun's yearly motion are in the same sense literal. the apparent motion of the sun along the ecliptic,[ ] which we know to be caused by the earth's yearly motion in an elliptical orbit around the sun, was then believed to be an actual movement of the sun carried along by his revolving sphere. like the references to the sun's daily movements those that mention his yearly motion along the ecliptic are also usually time references. the season of the year is indicated by defining the sun's position among the signs of the zodiac. the canterbury pilgrims set out on their journey in april when "the yonge sonne hath in the ram his halfe course y-ronne."[ ] in describing the month of may, chaucer does not fail to mention the sun's position in the zodiac: "in may, that moder is of monthes glade, that fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede, ben quike agayn, that winter dede made, and ful of bawme is fletinge every mede; whan phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede right in the whyte bole, it so bitidde as i shal singe, on mayes day the thridde,"[ ] etc. the effect of the sun's declination in causing change of seasons[ ] is mentioned a number of times in chaucer's poetry. the poet makes a general reference to the fact in a passage of exquisite beauty from _troilus and criseyde_ where he says that the sun has thrice returned to his lofty position in the sky and melted away the snows of winter: "the golden-tressed phebus heighe on-lofte thryes hadde alle with his bemes shene the snowes molte, and zephirus as ofte y-brought ayein the tendre leves grene, sin that the sone of ecuba the quene bigan to love hir first, for whom his sorwe was al, that she departe sholde a-morwe."[ ] more interesting astronomically but of less interest as poetry is his reference to the sun's declination and its effect on the seasons in the _frankeleyns tale_, because here chaucer uses the word 'declination' and states that it is the cause of the seasons. the reference is the beginning of aurelius' prayer to apollo, or the sun: "'apollo, god and governour of every plaunte, herbe, tree and flour, that yevest, after thy declinacioun, to ech of hem his tyme and his sesoun, as thyn herberwe chaungeth lowe or hye;'"[ ] once again in the _frankeleyns tale_ chaucer refers to the sun's declination and the passage of the seasons: "phebus wex old, and hewed lyk latoun,[ ] that in his hote declinacioun shoon as the burned gold with stremes brighte; but now in capricorn adoun he lighte, wher-as he shoon ful pale, i dar wel seyn."[ ] chaucer is here contrasting the sun's appearance in summer and winter. in his hot declination (his greatest northward declination in cancer, about june ) he shines as burnished gold, but when he reaches capricornus, his greatest southward declination (about december ) he appears 'old' and has a dull coppery color, no longer that of brilliant gold. . _the moon_ from those references to the moon that occur in chaucer's poetry alone, it would be impossible to determine just how much he knew of the peculiarities of her apparent movements; for he alludes to the moon's motion and positions much less frequently and with much less detail than to those of the sun. but a passage in the prologue to the _astrolabe_ leaves it without doubt that chaucer was quite familiar with lunar phenomena. in stating what the treatise is to contain, he says of the fourth part: "the whiche ferthe partie in special shal shewen a table of the verray moeving of the mone from houre to houre, every day and in every signe, after thyn almenak; upon which table ther folwith a canon, suffisant to teche as wel the maner of the wyrking of that same conclusioun, as to knowe in oure orizonte with which degree of the zodiac that the mone ariseth in any latitude;"[ ] as a matter of fact the treatise as first contemplated by chaucer was never finished; only the first two parts were written. but chaucer would scarcely have written thus definitely of his plan for the fourth part of the work unless he had had fairly complete knowledge of the phenomena connected with the moon's movements. the moon, in chaucer's imagination, must have occupied rather an insignificant position among the heavenly bodies as far as appealing to his sense of beauty was concerned, for we find in his poetry no descriptions of her appearance that can compare with his descriptions of the sun or even of the stars. he speaks of moonrise in the most general way: "hit fil, upon a night, when that the mone up-reysed had her light, this noble quene un-to her reste wente;"[ ] he applies to her only a few epithets, the most eulogistic of which is "lucina the shene."[ ] in comparing the sun with the other heavenly bodies the poet mentions the moon among the rest without distinction, as inferior to the sun: "for i dar swere, withoute doute, that as the someres sonne bright is fairer, clerer, and hath more light than any planete, (is) in heven, the mone, or the sterres seven, for al the worlde, so had she surmounted hem alle of beaute," etc.[ ] on the other hand, the stars are elsewhere said to be like small candles in comparison with the moon: "and cleer as (is) the mone-light, ageyn whom alle the sterres semen but smale candels, as we demen."[ ] whenever chaucer mentions the moon's position in the heavens he does so by reference to the signs of the zodiac[ ] and, as in the case of the sun, usually with the purpose of showing time. in the _marchantes tale_ he expresses the passage of four days thus: "the mone that, at noon, was, thilke day that ianuarie hath wedded fresshe may, in two of taur, was in-to cancre gliden; so long hath maius in hir chambre biden,"[ ] and a few lines further on he states the fact explicitly: "the fourthe day compleet fro noon to noon, whan that the heighe masse was y-doon, in halle sit this ianuarie, and may as fresh as is the brighte someres day."[ ] when criseyde leaves troilus to go to the greek army she promises to return to troy within the time that it will take the moon to pass from aries through leo, that is, within ten days: "'and trusteth this, that certes, herte swete, er phebus suster, lucina the shene, the leoun passe out of this ariete, i wol ben here, with-outen any wene. i mene, as helpe me iuno, hevenes quene, the tenthe day, but-if that deeth me assayle, i wol yow seen, with-outen any fayle.'"[ ] but while the moon is quickly traversing the part of her course from aries to leo, criseyde, pressed by diomede, is changing her mind about returning to troy, and by the appointed tenth day has decided to remain with the greeks: "and cynthea[ ] hir char-hors over-raughte to whirle out of the lyon, if she mighte; and signifer[ ] his candeles shewed brighte, whan that criseyde un-to hir bedde wente in-with hir fadres faire brighte tente. . . . . . . . . . . . . and thus bigan to brede the cause why, the sothe for to telle, that she tok fully purpos for to dwelle."[ ] the passage of time is also indicated in chaucer's poetry by reference to the recurrence of the moon's phases. in the _legend of good women_, phillis writes to the false demophon saying that the moon has passed through its phases four times since he went away and thrice since the time he promised to return: "'your anker, which ye in our haven leyde, highte us, that ye wolde comen, out of doute, or that the mone ones wente aboute. but tymes foure the mone hath hid her face sin thilke day ye wente fro this place, and foure tymes light the world again.'"[ ] chaucer refers more often to the phases of the moon than to any other lunar phenomenon, but most of these references to her phases are used for the sake of comparison or illustration and give us little idea of the extent of chaucer's knowledge. mars in his 'compleynt' says that the lover "hath ofter wo then changed is the mone."[ ] the rumors in the house of fame are given times of waxing and waning like the moon: "thus out at holes gonne wringe every tyding streight to fame; and she gan yeven eche his name, after hir disposicioun, and yaf hem eek duracioun, some to wexe and wane sone, as dooth the faire whyte mone, and leet hem gon."[ ] chaucer briefly describes the crescent moon by calling her "the bente mone with hir hornes pale."[ ] in troilus' prayer to the moon, the line "'i saugh thyn hornes olde eek by the morwe,'"[ ] is practically the only one in which chaucer gives any hint of the times at which the moon in her various phases may be seen. the phase of the 'new moon,' when the moon is in conjunction with the sun (i. e., between the earth and the sun, so that we cannot see the illuminated hemisphere of the moon) is mentioned in the same poem: "right sone upon the chaunging of the mone, whan lightles is the world a night or tweyne."[ ] there is a very definite description of three of the moon's phases in the following passage from _boethius_:[ ] "so that the mone som-tyme shyning with hir ful hornes, meting with alle the bemes of the sonne hir brother, hydeth the sterres that ben lesse; and som-tyme, whan the mone, pale with hir derke hornes, approcheth the sonne, leseth hir lightes;" the moon 'shining with her full horns' means with her horns filled up as at full moon when she is in a position opposite both earth and sun so that she reflects upon the earth all the rays of the sun. the moon "with derke hornes" refers of course to the waning moon, a thin crescent near the sun and almost obscured in his light, which approaching nearer the sun is entirely lost to our view in his rays and becomes the new moon. chaucer's most interesting references to the moon are found in the prayer of aurelius to the sun in the _frankeleyns tale_. dorigen has jestingly promised to have pity on aurelius as soon as he shall remove all the rocks from along the coast of brittany, and aurelius prays to the sun, or apollo, to help him by enlisting the aid of the moon, in accomplishing this feat. the sun's sister, lucina, or the moon, is chief goddess of the sea; just as she desires to follow the sun and be quickened and illuminated by him, so the sea desires to follow her: "'your blisful suster, lucina the shene, that of the see is chief goddesse and quene, though neptunus have deitee in the see, yet emperesse aboven him is she: ye knowen wel, lord, that right as hir desyr is to be quiked and lightned of your fyr, for which she folweth yow ful bisily, right so the see desyreth naturelly to folwen hir, as she that is goddesse bothe in the see and riveres more and lesse.'"[ ] in calling lucina chief goddess of the sea and speaking of the sea's desire to follow her, chaucer is, of course alluding to the moon's effect upon the tides; and in the line: "'is to be quiked and lightned of your fyr,'" the reference is to the fact that the moon derives her light from the sun. instead of leaving it to the sun-god to find a way of removing the rocks for him, aurelius proceeds to give explicit instructions as to how this may be accomplished. as the highest tides occur when the moon is in opposition or in conjunction with the sun, if the moon could only be kept in either of these positions with regard to the sun for a long enough time, so great a flood would be produced, aurelius thinks, that the rocks would be washed away. so he prays phebus to induce the moon to slacken her speed at her next opposition in leo and for two years to traverse her sphere with the same (apparent) velocity as that of the sun, thus remaining in opposition with him: "'wherfore, lord phebus, this is my requeste-- do this miracle, or do myn herte breste-- that now, next at this opposicioun, which in the signe shal be of the leoun, as preyeth hir so greet a flood to bringe, that fyve fadme at the leeste it overspringe the hyeste rokke in armorik briteyne; and lat this flood endure yeres tweyne; . . . . . . . . . preye hir she go no faster cours than ye, i seye, preyeth your suster that she go no faster cours than ye thise yeres two. than shal she been evene atte fulle alway, and spring-flood laste bothe night and day.'"[ ] references to eclipses of the moon occur seldom in chaucer. in the second part of the _romaunt of the rose_, which is included in complete editions of chaucer's works but which he almost certainly did not write, there is a description of a lunar eclipse and of its causes. fickleness in love is compared to an eclipse: "for it shal chaungen wonder sone, and take eclips right as the mone, whan she is from us (y)-let thurgh erthe, that bitwixe is set the sonne and hir, as it may falle, be it in party, or in alle; the shadowe maketh her bemis merke, and hir hornes to shewe derke, that part where she hath lost hir lyght of phebus fully, and the sight; til, whan the shadowe is overpast, she is enlumined ageyn as faste, thurgh brightnesse of the sonne bemes that yeveth to hir ageyn hir lemes."[ ] this passage is so clear that it needs no explanation. an eclipse of the moon, since it is caused by the passing of the moon into the shadow of the earth, can only take place when the moon is full, that is, in _opposition_ to the sun. this fact is suggested in a reference in _boethius_ to a lunar eclipse: "the hornes of the fulle mone wexen pale and infect by the boundes of the derke night;"[ ] in the next lines chaucer mentions the fact that the stars which are lost to sight in the bright rays of the full moon become visible during an eclipse: "and ... the mone, derk and confuse, discovereth the sterres that she hadde y-covered by hir clere visage."[ ] . _the planets_ all the planets that are easily visible to the unaided eye were known in chaucer's time and are mentioned in his writings, some of them many times. these planets are mercury, venus, mars, jupiter, and saturn. according to the ptolemaic system, which as we have seen, held sway in the world of learning during chaucer's century, the sun and moon were also held to be planets, and all were supposed to revolve around the earth in concentric rings, the moon being nearest the earth, and the sun between venus and mars. the circular orbit of each planet was called its "deferent" and upon the deferent moved, not the planet itself, but an imaginary planet, represented by a point. the real planet moved upon a smaller circle called the "epicycle" whose center was the moving point representing the imaginary planet. the deferent of each planet was supposed to be traced as a great circle upon a transparent separate crystal sphere; and all of the crystal spheres revolved once a day around an axis passing through the poles of the heavens. as the sun and moon did not show the same irregularities[ ] of motion as the planets, ptolemy supposed these two bodies to have deferents but no epicycles. later investigators complicated the system by adding further secondary imaginary planets, revolving in ptolemy's epicycles and with the actual planets attached to additional corresponding epicycles. they even supposed the moon to have one, perhaps two epicycles and we shall find this notion reflected in chaucer. the eighth sphere had neither deferent nor epicycle but to it were attached the fixed stars. this sphere as we have seen earlier, revolved slowly from west to east to account for the precession of the equinoxes, while a ninth sphere, the _primum mobile_, imparted to all the inner spheres their diurnal motion from east to west. chaucer's poetical references to the planets, as we have found to be true in the case of the sun and moon, do not give us satisfactory evidence of the extent of his knowledge, but occasional passages from his prose works again throw light on these allusions. chaucer refers to the planets in general as 'the seven stars,' as, for instance, in the lines: "and with hir heed she touched hevene, ther as shynen sterres sevene."[ ] and "to have mo floures, swiche seven as in the welken sterres be."[ ] chaucer was undoubtedly familiar with the irregularities of the planetary movements, and with the theory of epicycles by which these irregular movements were in his day explained, although it is not from his poetry that we can learn the fact. he uses the word 'epicycle' only once in all his works. in the _astrolabe_ when comparing the moon's motion with that of the other planets, he says: "for sothly, the mone moeveth the contrarie from othere planetes as in hir episicle, but in non other manere."[ ] in the _astrolabe_[ ] chaucer explains a method of determining whether a planet's motion is retrograde or direct.[ ] the altitude of the planet and of any fixed star, is taken, and several nights later at the time when the fixed star has the same altitude as at the previous observation, the planet's altitude is again observed. if the planet is on the right or east side of the meridian, and its second altitude is less than its first, then the planet's motion is direct. if the planet is on the left or west side of the meridian, and has a smaller altitude at the second observation than at the first, then the planet's motion is retrograde. if the planet is on the east side of the meridional line when its altitude is taken and the second altitude is greater than the first, it is retrograde; and if it is on the west side and its second altitude is greater, it is direct. this method would be correct were it not that a change in the planet's declination or angular distance from the celestial equator might render the conclusions incorrect. chaucer mentions the irregularity of planetary movements in _boethius_ also when he says: "and whiche sterre in hevene useth wandering recourses, y-flit by dyverse speres."[ ] the expression "y-flit by dyverse speres" may have reference only to the one motion of the planets, that is, their motion concentric to the star-sphere; or it may be used to include also their epicyclic motion. skeat interprets the expression in the former way; but the context, it seems, would justify interpreting the words "dyverse speres" as meaning the various spheres of the planets to-gether with their epicycles; i. e., both deferents and epicycles. of all the planets, that most often mentioned by chaucer is venus, partly, no doubt, because of her greater brilliance, but probably in the main because of her greater astrological importance; for few of chaucer's references to venus, or to any other planet, indeed, are without astrological significance. chaucer refers to venus, in the classical manner, as hesperus when she appears as evening[ ] star and as lucifer when she is seen as the morning star: "and that the eve-sterre hesperus, which that in the firste tyme of the night bringeth forth hir colde arysinges, cometh eft ayein hir used cours, and is pale _by the morwe_ at the rysing of the sonne, and is thanne cleped lucifer."[ ] her appearance as morning star is again mentioned in the same work: "and after that lucifer the day-sterre hath chased awey the derke night, the day the fairere ledeth the rosene hors _of the sonne_,"[ ] and in _troilus and criseyde_ where it is said that "lucifer, the dayes messager, gan for to ryse, and out hir bemes throwe;"[ ] elsewhere in the same poem her appearance as evening star is mentioned but she is not this time called hesperus: "the brighte venus folwede and ay taughte the wey, ther brode phebus doun alighte;"[ ] occasionally venus is called cytherea, from the island near which greek myth represented her as having arisen from the sea. thus in the _knightes tale_: "he roos, to wenden on his pilgrimage un-to the blisful citherea benigne, i mene venus, honurable and digne."[ ] and in the _parlement of foules_; "citherea! thou blisful lady swete,"[ ] the relative positions of the different planets in the heavens is suggested by allusions to the different sizes of their spheres and to their different velocities. in the _compleynt of mars_ the comparative sizes and velocities of the spheres of mercury, venus and mars are made the basis for most of the action of the poem. the greater the sphere or orbit of a planet, the slower is its apparent motion. thus mars in his large sphere moves about half as fast as venus and in the poem it is planned that when mars reaches the next palace[ ] of venus, he shall by virtue of his slower motion, wait for her to overtake him: "that mars shal entre, as faste as he may glyde, into hir nexte paleys, to abyde, walking his cours til she had him a-take, and he preyde hir to haste hir for his sake."[ ] venus in compassion for his solitude hastens to overtake her knight: "she hath so gret compassion of hir knight, that dwelleth in solitude til she come; . . . . . . . . . wherefore she spedde hir as faste in her weye, almost in oon day, as he dide in tweye."[ ] when phebus comes into the palace with his fiery torch, mars will not flee and cannot hide, so he girds himself with sword and armour and bids venus flee. phebus, who in chaucer's time was regarded as the fourth planet, can overtake mars but not venus because his sphere is between theirs and his motion is consequently slower than that of venus but faster than that of mars: "flee wolde he not, ne mighte him-selven hyde. he throweth on his helm of huge wighte, and girt him with his swerde; and in his honde his mighty spere, as he was wont to fighte, he shaketh so that almost it to-wonde; ful hevy he was to walken over londe; he may not holde with venus companye, but bad hir fleen, lest phebus hir espye. "o woful mars! alas! what mayst thou seyn, that in the paleys of thy disturbaunce art left behinde, in peril to be sleyn? . . . . . . . . that thou nere swift, wel mayst thou wepe and cryen."[ ] in spite of his sorrow, mars patiently continues to follow venus, lamenting as he goes that his sphere is so large: "he passeth but oo steyre in dayes two, but ner the les, for al his hevy armure, he foloweth hir that is his lyves cure;[ ] . . . . . . . after he walketh softely a pas, compleyning, that hit pite was to here. he seyde, 'o lady bright, venus! alas! that ever so wyde a compass is my spere! alas! whan shal i mete yow, herte dere,'" etc.[ ] meanwhile venus has passed on to mercury's palace where he soon overtakes her and receives her as his friend:[ ] "hit happed for to be, that, whyl that venus weping made hir mone, cylenius, ryding in his chevauche, fro venus valance mighte his paleys see, and venus he salueth, and maketh chere, and hir receyveth as his frend ful dere."[ ] mercury's palace was the sign gemini and venus' valance, probably meaning her detrimentum or the sign opposite her palace, was aries. 'chevauche' means an equestrian journey or ride, and is here used in the sense of 'swift course.' the passage, then, simply refers to the swift motion by which in a very short time mercury passes from aries to a position near enough to that of venus in gemini so that he can see her and give her welcome. mercury's sphere being the smallest of the planets, his motion is also the swiftest. the size of jupiter's orbit is not mentioned in chaucer and that of saturn's only once. in the _knightes tale_ saturn, addressing venus, speaks of the great distance that he traverses with his revolving sphere but does not compare the size of his sphere with those of the other planets: "'my dere doghter venus,' quod saturne, 'my cours, that hath so wyde for to turne, hath more power than wot any man.'"[ ] besides the reference in the _compleynt of mars_ to the conjunction of venus and mars[ ], there are occasional references in chaucer to conjunctions of other planets. in the _astrolabe_[ ] chaucer explains a method of determining in what position in the heavens a conjunction of the sun and moon takes place, when the time of the conjunction is known. a conjunction of the moon with saturn and jupiter is mentioned in _troilus and criseyde_, in the lines: "the bente mone with hir hornes pale, saturne, and iove, in cancro ioyned were,"[ ] . _the galaxy_ the galaxy or milky way, which stretches across the heavens like a broad band whitish in color caused by closely crowded stars, has appealed to men's imagination since very early times. its resemblance to a road or street has been suggested in the names given to it by many peoples. ovid called it _via lactea_ and the roman peasants, _strada di roma_; pilgrims to spain referred to it as the _road to santiago_; dante refers to it as "the white circle commonly called st. janus's way"[ ]; and the english had two names for it, _walsingham way_ and _watling-street_. chaucer twice mentions the galaxy; once in the _parlement of foules_, where africanus shows scipio the location of heaven by pointing to the galaxy: "and rightful folk shal go, after they dye, to heven; and shewed him the galaxye."[ ] in the _hous of fame_, the golden eagle who bears chaucer through the heavens toward fame's palace, points out to him the galaxy and then relates the myth of phaeton driving the chariot of the sun, a story traditionally associated with the milky way: 'now,' quod he tho, 'cast up thyn ye; see yonder, lo, the galaxye, which men clepeth the milky wey, for hit is whyt: and somme, parfey, callen hit watlinge strete: that ones was y-brent with hete, whan the sonnes sone, the rede, that highte pheton, wolde lede algate his fader cart, and gye. the cart-hors gonne wel espye that he ne coude no governaunce, and gonne for to lepe and launce, and beren him now up, now doun, til that he saw the scorpioun, which that in heven a signe is yit. and he, for ferde, loste his wit, of that, and lest the reynes goon of his hors; and they anoon gonne up to mounte, and doun descende til bothe the eyr and erthe brende; til iupiter, lo, atte laste, him slow, and fro the carte caste.'[ ] in narrating this story here, chaucer may have been imitating dante who refers to the myth in the _divine comedy_: "what time abandoned phaeton the reins, whereby the heavens, as still appears, were scorched,"[ ] and states its source and the use made of it by some philosophers in the _convivio_: "for the pythagoreans affirmed that the sun at one time wandered in its course, and in passing through other regions not suited to sustain its heat, set on fire the place through which it passed; and so these traces of the conflagration remain there. and i believe that they were influenced by the fable of phaeton, which ovid tells at the beginning of the second book of the _metamorphoses_."[ ] v astrological lore in chaucer astrology, though resembling a science in that it makes use of observation and seeks to establish laws governing its data, is in reality a faith or creed. it had its beginning, so tradition tells us, in the faith of the ancient babylonians in certain astral deities who exerted an influence upon terrestrial events and human life. the basis of this faith was not altogether illogical but contained a germ of truth. of all the heavenly bodies, the sun exerted the most obvious effect upon the earth; the sun brought day and night, summer and winter; his rays lured growing things from mother earth and so gave sustenance to mankind. but to the ancient peoples of the orient the sun was also often a baneful power; he could destroy as well as give life. therefore, the ancients came to look upon the sun as a great and powerful god to be worshipped and propitiated by men. and if the sun was such a power, it was natural to believe that all the other bright orbs of the sky were lesser divinities who exercised more limited powers on the earth. from this beginning, based, as we have seen, on a germ of fact, by the power of his imagination and credulity, man extended more and more the powers of these sidereal divinities, attributing to their volition and influence all the most insignificant as well as the most important terrestrial events. and if the heavenly bodies, by revolving about the earth in ceaseless harmony, effected the recurrence of day and night and of the seasons, and if their configurations were responsible for the minutest events in nature, was it not natural to suppose that, besides affecting man thus indirectly, they also influenced him directly and were responsible for his conduct and for the very qualities of his mind and soul? perhaps the astonishing variety of the influences that the celestial bodies, from ancient until modern times, were supposed to exercise over the world and the life of mankind can be accounted for by imagining some such process of thought to have been involved in the beginnings of astrology. it was but a step from faith in stellar influence on our earth to the belief that, as the heavenly movements were governed by immutable laws, so their influence upon the world would follow certain laws and its effects in the future could be determined as certainly as could the coming revolutions and conjunctions of the stars. out of this two-fold belief was evolved a complex system of divination, the origin of which was forgotten as men, believing in it, invented reasons for believing, pretending that their faith was founded on a long series of observations. the chaldeans believed that in discovering the unceasing regularity of the celestial motions, they had found the very laws of life and they built upon this conviction a mass of absolutely rigid dogmas. but when experience belied these dogmas, unable to realize the falsity of their presuppositions and to give up their faith in the divine stars, the astrologers invented new dogmas to explain the old ones, thus piling up a body of complicated and often contradictory doctrines that will ever be to the student a source of perplexity and astonishment. on its philosophical side astrology was a system of astral theology developed, not by popular thought, but through the careful observations and speculations of learned priests and scholars. it was a purely eastern science which came into being on the chaldean plains and in the nile valley. as far as we know, it was entirely unknown to any of the primitive aryan races, from hindostan to scandinavia. astrology as a system of divination never gained a foothold in greece during the brightest period of her intellectual life. but the dogma of astral divinity was zealously maintained by the greatest of greek philosophers. plato, the great idealist, whose influence upon the theology of the ancient and even of the modern world was more profound than that of any other thinker, called the stars "visible gods" ranking them just below the supreme eternal being; and to plato these celestial gods were infinitely superior to the anthropomorphic gods of the popular religion, who resembled men in their passions and were superior to them only in beauty of form and in power. aristotle defended with no less zeal the doctrine of the divinity of the stars, seeing in them eternal substances, principles of movement, and therefore divine beings. in the hellenistic period, zeno, the stoic, and his followers proclaimed the supremacy of the sidereal divinities even more strongly than the schools of plato and aristotle had done. the stoics conceived the world as a great organism whose "sympathetic" forces constantly interacted upon one another, governed by reason which was of the essence of ethereal fire, the primordial substance of the universe. to the stars, the purest manifestation of the power of this ethereal substance, were attributed the greatest influence and the loftiest divine qualities. the stoics developed the doctrine of fatalism, which is the inevitable outcome of faith in stellar influence on human life, to its consequences; yet they proved by facts that fatalism is not incompatible with active and virtuous living. by the end of the roman imperial period astrology had transformed paganism, replacing the old society of immortals who were scarcely superior to mortals, except in being exempted from old age and death, by faith in the eternal beings who ran their course in perfect harmony throughout the ages, whose power, regulated by the unvarying celestial motions, extended over all the earth and determined the destiny of the whole human race. astrology, as a science and a system of divination, exerted a profound influence over the mediaeval mind. no court was without its practicing astrologer and the universities all had their professors of astrology. the practice of astrology was an essential part of the physician's profession, and before prescribing for a patient it was thought quite as important to determine the positions of the planets as the nature of the disease.[ ] interesting evidence of this fact is found in the _prologue to the canterbury tales_ where chaucer speaks of the doctour's knowledge and use of astrology as if it were his chief excellence as a physician: "in al this world ne was ther noon him lyk to speke of phisik and of surgerye; for he was grounded in astronomye. he kepte his pacient a ful greet del in houres, by his magik naturel. wel coude he fortunen the ascendent of his images for his pacient."[ ] yet in spite of the esteem in which astrological divination was held by most people in the middle ages, dante, the greatest exponent of the thought and learning of that period, shows practically no knowledge of the technical and practical side of astrology. when he refers to the specific effects of the planets it is only to those most familiarly known, and he nowhere uses such technical terms as "houses" or "aspects" of planets. but dante, like the great philosophers of the earlier periods, was undoubtedly influenced by the philosophical doctrines of astrology, and a general belief in the influence of the celestial spheres upon human life was deeply rooted in his mind. to him the ceaseless and harmonious movements of the celestial bodies were the manifestations and instruments of god's providence, and were ordained by the first mover to govern the destinies of the earth and human life. we can see this conviction of dante's with perfect certainty when we read the _divina commedia_. for dante's poetry is highly subjective; on every page his own personal thoughts and feelings are revealed quite openly. chaucer's poetry, on the other hand, is objective; he tells us almost nothing directly about himself and what we learn of him in his writings is almost entirely by inference. chaucer's frequent use of astrology in his poetry would make it hard to believe that he was not considerably influenced by its philosophical aspects, at least in the general way that dante was. part and parcel of the dramatic action in most of his poems is the idea of stellar influences. yet we cannot assert, with the same assurance that we can say it of dante, that chaucer believed, even in a general way, in the influence of the stars on human life. in dante's poetry, as we have said, the poet himself is always before us. chaucer, with socratic irony, always makes it plain to the reader that his attitude is purely objective, that he is only the narrator of what he has seen or dreamed, only the copyist of another's story. even when chaucer makes himself one of the protagonists, as in the _hous of fame_ and the _canterbury tales_, it is only that his narrative may be the more convincing. he tells a story and makes its protagonists actually live before us, as individual men and women. it is possible to imagine all of his use of astrology in his poetry not as the reflection of his own faith in its cosmic philosophy, but the expression of his genius for understanding people and truthfully describing life and character. considerable discussion as to chaucer's attitude towards astrology has been called forth by passages in which he speaks in words of scorn with regard to some of the practices and magic arts that were often used in connection with astrology. in the _astrolabe_ after describing somewhat at length the favorable and unfavorable positions of planets he says: "natheles, thise ben observauncez of iudicial matiere and rytes of payens, in which my spirit ne hath no feith, ne no knowing of hir horoscopum."[ ] again in the _franklin's tale_ he speaks in a similar disdainful tone of astrological magic: "he him remembred that, upon a day, at orliens in studie a book he say of magik naturel, which his felawe, that was that tyme a bacheler of lawe, al were he ther to lerne another craft, had prively upon his desk y-laft; which book spak muchel of the operaciouns, touchinge the eighte and twenty mansiouns that longen to the mone, and swich folye, as in our dayes is not worth a flye: for holy chirches feith in our bileve ne suffreth noon illusion us to greve."[ ] and elsewhere in the same tale he writes: "so atte laste he hath his tyme y-founde to maken his iapes and his wreccednesse of switch a supersticious cursednesse."[ ] here follows a long description of the clerk's instruments and astrological observances, ending in the lines "for swiche illusiouns and swiche meschaunces as hethen folk used in thilke dayes; for which no lenger maked he delayes, but thurgh his magik, for a wyke or tweye, it seemed that alle the rokkes were aweye."[ ] on the strength of these passages professor t. r. lounsbury[ ] holds that chaucer was far ahead of most of his contemporaries in his attitude toward the superstitious practices connected with the astrology of his day; that his attitude toward judicial astrology was one of total disbelief and scorn; and he even goes so far as to say that chaucer was guilty of a breach of artistic workmanship in expressing his disbelief so scornfully in a tale in which the very climax of the dramatic action depends upon a feat of astrological magic. a more satisfactory interpretation of the passages quoted above is advanced by professor j. s. p. tatlock,[ ] who shows that chaucer has taken great pains to place the setting of the _franklin's tale_ in ancient times and that he, in common with most of the educated men of his day, disapproved of the practices (except sometimes when employed for good purposes as, e. g. in the physician's profession) and the practicians of judicial astrology in his own day, but thought of the feats and observances of astrological magic as having been possible and efficacious in ancient times. according to this view chaucer's attitude was one of disapproval rather than disbelief, and his disapproval was not for the general theory of astrology, but for the shady observances and quackery connected with its application to the problems of life in his time. it is to be noted, further, that wherever chaucer speaks in the strongest terms against astrological observances he also uses religious language. this fact may point to a wise caution on his part lest his evident interest in astrology, (which was closely associated with magic, and hence, indirectly, with sorcery) might involve him in difficulties with mother church; and, as professor tatlock has pointed out, there is no reason to suppose that chaucer's religious expressions in these passages are insincere. the _franklin's tale_ falls in the group of tales called by professor kittredge the "marriage group,"[ ] that in which the wife of bath is the most conspicuous figure. the wife of bath's tale had aroused a rather heated controversy among a number of the canterbury pilgrims on the subject of the respective duties and relations of wives and husbands. if the critics have been right in placing the _franklin's tale_ where they do, it was chaucer's purpose to have the franklin soothe the ruffled feelings of certain members of the party by telling a tale in which a husband (and wife), a squire, and a clerk, all prove themselves capable of truly generous behavior. if the tale was to accomplish its purpose the clerk must accomplish his magic feat of removing the rocks from the coast of brittany, and must in the end generously refuse to accept pay from the squire when he learned that the latter had been too magnanimous to profit from his services. by setting the tale in pagan times, chaucer was able to express the scorn he felt for certain superstitious practices in his own time without debasing one of his chief characters, one of the three rivals in magnanimity, and so spoiling the noble temper of the story and entirely defeating its purpose. thus the astrological passages in the _franklin's tale_ do not suggest total disbelief in astrology on chaucer's part, and much less do they show him to have been lacking in true artistic sense. probably his attitude toward astrology was about this: he was very much interested in it, perhaps in much the same way that dante was, because of the philosophical ideas at the basis of astrology and out of curiosity as to the problems of free will, providence, and so on, that naturally arose from it. for the shady practices and quackery connected with its use in his own day he had nothing but scorn. but while chaucer was at one with the educated men of his century in his attitude toward astrology, and with them had a strong distaste for certain aspects of judicial astrology, nevertheless he made wide use of the greater faith of the majority of people of his time in portraying character in his poetry. for men's ideas and beliefs constitute a very important part of their character, and chaucer knew this very well. men believed that whatever happened to them, whether fortunate or unfortunate, could in some way be traced to the influence of the stars, the agents and instruments of destiny. the configuration of the heavens at the moment of one's birth was considered especially important, since the positions and interrelations of the different celestial bodies at this time could determine the most momentous events of one's life. now the nature of the influence exerted by the different stars, especially the planets and zodiacal constellations, varied greatly. mars and venus, for instance, bestowed vastly different qualities upon the soul that was coming into being. moreover, the power exerted by a planet or constellation fluctuated considerably according to its position. each planet had in the zodiac a position of greatest and a position of least power called its 'exaltation' and 'depression.' furthermore, the 'aspect' or angular distance of one planet from another altered its influence in various ways. if mars and jupiter, for instance, were in trine or sextile aspect the portent was favorable, if in opposition, it was unfavorable.[ ] these ideas are frequently expressed in chaucer, when the characters seek to understand their misfortunes or to justify their conduct by tracing them back to the determinations of the heavens at their birth. when palamon and arcite have been thrown into prison the latter pleads with his companion to have patience; this misfortune was fixed upon them at the time of their birth by the disposition of the planets and constellations, and complaining is of no avail: "'for goddes love, tak al in pacience our prisoun, for it may non other be; fortune hath yeven us this adversitee. som wikke aspect or disposicioun of saturne, by sum constellacioun hath yeven us this, al-though we hadde it sworn; so stood the heven whan that we were born; we moste endure it: this is the short and pleyn.'"[ ] in the _man of lawes tale_ the effect of the stars at the time of a man's nativity is discussed somewhat at length. the man of law predicts the fate of the sultan by saying that the destiny written in the stars had perhaps allotted to him death through love: "paraventure in thilke large book which that men clepe the heven, y-writen was with sterres, whan that he his birthe took, that he for love shulde han his deeth, allas! for in the sterres, clerer than is glas, is writen, god wot, who-so coude it rede, the deeth of every man, withouten drede."[ ] then he mentions the names of various ancient heroes whose death, he says was written in the stars "er they were born:" "in sterres, many a winter ther-biforn, was written the deeth of ector, achilles, of pompey, iulius, er they were born; the stryf of thebes; and of ercules, of sampson, turnus, and of socrates the deeth; but mennes wittes been so dulle, that no wight can wel rede it atte fulle."[ ] when criseyde learns that she is to be sent to the greeks in exchange for antenor she attributes her misfortune to the stars: "'alas!' quod she, 'out of this regioun i, woful wrecche and infortuned wight, and born in corsed constellacioun, mot goon, and thus departen fro my knight;'"[ ] in the _legend of good women_ we are told that hypermnestra was "born to all good things" or qualities, and then the various influences of the particular planets upon her destiny are mentioned: "the whiche child, of hir nativitee, to alle gode thewes born was she, as lyked to the goddes, or she was born, that of the shefe she sholde be the corn; the wirdes, that we clepen destinee, hath shapen her that she mot nedes be pitouse, sadde, wyse, and trewe as steel; and to this woman hit accordeth weel. for, though that venus yaf her great beautee, with jupiter compouned so was she that conscience, trouthe, and dreed of shame, and of hir wyfhood for to keep her name, this, thoughte her, was felicitee as here. and rede mars was, that tyme of the yere, so feble, that his malice is him raft, repressed hath venus his cruel craft; what with venus and other oppressioun of houses, mars his venim is adoun, that ypermistra dar nat handle a knyf in malice, thogh she sholde lese her lyf. but natheles, as heven gan tho turne, to badde aspectes hath she of saturne, that made her for to deyen in prisoun, as i shal after make mencioun."[ ] the purpose of this astrological passage is plainly to show why hypermnestra was doomed to die in prison. the qualities given her by the planets, as shown by her horoscope, were such that she was unable to violate a wife's duty and kill her husband in order to save her own life.[ ] venus gave her great beauty and was also influential in repressing the influence of mars who would have given her fighting qualities if his influence had been strong. the myth of the amour between venus and mars, which chaucer makes the basis of his poem the _compleynt of mars_, would explain why venus was able to influence mars in this way. the feeble influence of mars at hypermnestra's nativity is accounted for also in another way. his influence is feeble because of the time of year and through the "oppressioun of houses" both of which amount to the same thing, namely, a position in the zodiac in which his power is at a minimum.[ ] the influence of jupiter, we are told, was to give hypermnestra conscience, truth, and wifely loyalty. that of saturn was evil and the cause of her death in prison. the specific influences of saturn are mentioned in detail in the _knightes tale_. almost all the ills imaginable are attributable to his power: "'my dere doghter venus,' quod saturne, 'my cours, that hath so wyde for to turne, hath more power than wot any man. myn is the drenching in the see so wan; myn is the prison in the derke cote; myn is the strangling and hanging by the throte; the murmure, and the cherles rebelling, the groyning, and the pryvee empoysoning; i do vengeance and pleyn correccioun whyl i dwelle in the signe of the leoun. myn is the ruine of the hye halles, the falling of the toures and of the walles up-on the mynour or the carpenter. i slow sampsoun in shaking the piler; and myne be the maladyes colde, the derke tresons, and the castes olde; my loking is the fader of pestilence.'"[ ] in the line, "myn is the prison in the derke cote;" imprisonment is for the second time attributed to saturn's influence. in an earlier passage in the _knightes tale_[ ], (see p. ) it is suggested when palamon and arcite's imprisonment is said to be due to 'some wicked aspect or disposition of saturn' at the time of their birth. later in the story palamon specifically states that his imprisonment is through saturn: "but i mot been in prison thurgh saturne,"[ ] that mars and saturn were generally regarded as planets of evil influence is shown by a passage in the _astrolabe_. chaucer has just explained what the 'ascendant', means in astrology. it is that degree of the zodiac that at the given time is seen upon the eastern horizon. now, chaucer says, the ascendant may be 'fortunate or unfortunate,' thus: "a fortunat ascendent clepen they whan that no wykkid planete, as saturne or mars, or elles the tail of the dragoun, is in the house of the assendent, ne that no wikked planets have non aspects of enemite up-on the assendent;"[ ] the wife of bath attributes the two principal qualities of her disposition, amorousness and pugnaciousness, to the planets venus and mars: "for certes, i am al venerien in felinge, and myn herte is marcien. venus me yaf my lust, my likerousnesse, and mars yaf me my sturdy hardinesse. myn ascendent was taur, and mars ther-inne. allas! allas! that ever love was sinne! i folwed ay myn inclinacioun by vertu of my constellacioun."[ ] a little later in her _prologue_ the wife contrasts the influences of mercury and venus. as a jibe at the clerk who was in the company of canterbury pilgrims she has just said that clerks cannot possibly speak well of wives, and that women could tell tales of clerks if they would. she upholds her statement thus: wives are the children of venus, clerks, of mercury, two planets that are 'in their working full contrarious:' "the children of mercurie and of venus been in hir wirking ful contrarious; mercurie loveth wisdom and science, and venus loveth ryot and dispence. and, for hir diverse disposicioun, ech falleth in otheres exaltacioun; and thus, got woot! mercurie is desolat in pisces, wher venus is exaltat; and venus falleth ther mercurie is reysed; therefore no womman of no clerk is preysed."[ ] venus has her exaltation in the sign in which mercury has his depression. therefore the two signs have opposite virtues and influences, and the children of one can see little good in the children of the other. we have seen how the stars were supposed to control human destiny by bestowing certain qualities upon souls at birth. we shall next consider how they were thought to influence men more indirectly, through their effects on terrestrial events. certain positions of the heavenly bodies with regard to one another could cause heavy rains. the clerk in the _milleres tale_ predicts a great rain through observation of the moon's position: "'now john,' quod nicholas, 'i wol nat lye; i have y-founde in myn astrologye, as i have loked in the mone bright, that now, a monday next, at quarter-night, shal falle a reyn and that so wilde and wood, that half so greet was never noes flood.'"[ ] such predictions as this were, however, by no means always believed in even by uneducated people. in this case, for the purposes of the story, the flood does not take place. the carpenter, john, is taken in because the story requires it, but nicholas is a quack pure and simple, and of course the miller who tells the story has no delusions. in _troilus and criseyde_ we are told that the moon's conjunction with jupiter and saturn caused a heavy rain. pandarus had the day before suspected that there was to be rain from the condition of the moon: "right sone upon the chaunging of the mone, whan lightles is the world a night or tweyne, and that the welken shoop him for to reyne, he streight a-morwe un-to his nece wente;"[ ] and on the next night the rain came: "the bente mone with hir hornes pale, saturne, and iove, in cancro ioyned were, that swich a rayn from hevene gan avale, that every maner womman that was there hadde of that smoky reyn a verray fere;"[ ] perhaps the moon alone in cancer, which was her mansion, would have caused a rain, and it was the additional presence of saturn and jupiter that made it such a heavy downpour. chaucer humorously makes use of this astrological superstition that the planets cause rains in the _lenvoy a scogan_: "to-broken been the statuts hye in hevene that creat were eternally to dure, sith that i see the brighte goddes sevene mow wepe and wayle, and passioun endure, as may in erthe a mortal creature. allas, fro whennes may this thing procede? of whiche errour i deye almost for drede."[ ] here it is not the planets' positions that cause the rain, but the planets are weeping as mortals do and their tears are the rain. in the next stanza we learn that even venus, from whose sphere divine law once decreed no tear should ever fall, is weeping so that mortals are about to be drenched. and it is all scogan's fault! "by worde eterne whylom was hit shape that fro the fifte cercle, in no manere, ne mighte a drope of teres doun escape. but now so wepeth venus in hir spere, that with hir teres she wol drenche us here. allas! scogan! this is for thyn offence! thou causest this deluge of pestilence."[ ] so the ultimate cause of the rain was scogan's offense. and in the next stanza we learn what that offence was. instead of vowing to serve his lady forever, though his love is unrequited, scogan has rebelled against the law of love: "hast thou not seyd, in blaspheme of this goddes, through pryde, or through thy grete rakelnesse, swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is? that, for thy lady saw nat thy distresse, therefor thou yave hir up at michelmesse!"[ ] i have said that chaucer makes wide use of the astrological beliefs of his century in portraying character and have shown how some of the strange astrological ideas of the people of his time are reflected in chaucer's poetry. it remains to consider somewhat more closely the relations between astrological faith and conduct, and chaucer's application of these relations to the dramatic action in his poems. the inevitable logical outcome of astrological faith is the doctrine of necessity. the invariability of the celestial motions suggested to early astrologers that there must be a higher power transcending and controlling them, and this power could be none other than necessity. but, since the stars by their movements and positions were the regulators of mundane events and human affairs, it followed that human destiny on the earth was also under the sway of this relentless power of necessity or fate. now it was the stoics alone who developed a thorough-going fatalism and at the same time made it consistent with practical life and virtue. they taught that man could best find himself in complete submission to the divine law of destiny. the early babylonian astrologers who originated the doctrine of necessity did not develop it to its logical consequences. reasoning from certain very unusual occurrences that sometimes took place in the heavens, such as the appearance of comets, meteors and falling stars, they reached the conclusion that divine will at times arbitrarily interfered in the destined course of nature. so priests foretold future events from the configuration of the heavens, but professed ability to ward off threatened evils by spells and incantations, or, by purifications and sacrifices, to make the promised blessings more secure. now the fatalism of chaucer's characters is something like this. the general belief in the determination of human destiny by fortune or necessity is present and is expressed usually at moments of deep despair, when the longings of the heart and the struggles of the will have been relentlessly thwarted. when the trojans decree that criseyde must go to the greeks in exchange for antenor, troilus pleads with fortune: "than seyde he thus, 'fortune! allas the whyle! what have i doon, what have i thus a-gilt? how mightestow for reuthe me bigyle? is ther no grace, and shall i thus be spilt? shal thus criseyde awey, for that thou wilt? allas! how maystow in thyn herte finde to been to me thus cruel and unkinde? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . allas! fortune! if that my lyf in ioye displesed hadde un-to thy foule envye, why ne haddestow my fader, king of troye, by-raft the lyf, or doon my bretheren dye, or slayn my-self, that thus compleyne and crye, i, combre-world, that may of no-thing serve, but ever dye, and never fulle sterve?'"[ ] but there is present, too, in spite of all obstacles and defeats, an undying hope that somehow--by prayers and sacrifices to the celestial powers, or by the choice of astrologically favorable times of doing things--that somehow the course of human lives, mapped out at birth by the stars under the control of relentless destiny, may be altered. so the characters in chaucer's poems pray to the orbs of the sky to help in their undertakings. the love-lorn troilus undertakes scarcely a single act without first beseeching some one of the celestial powers for help. when he has confessed his love to pandarus and the latter has promised to help him, troilus prays to venus: "'now blisful venus helpe, er that i sterve, of thee, pandare, i may som thank deserve.'"[ ] and when the first step has been taken and he knows that criseyde is not ill disposed to be his friend at least, he praises venus, looking up to her as a flower to the sun: "but right as floures, thorugh the colde of night y-closed, stoupen on hir stalkes lowe, redressen hem a-yein the sonne bright, and spreden on hir kinde cours by rowe; right so gan tho his eyen up to throwe this troilus, and seyde, 'o venus dere, thy might, thy grace, y-heried be it here!'"[ ] when troilus is about to undertake a step that will either win or lose criseyde he prays to all the planetary gods, but especially to venus, begging her to overcome by her aid whatever evil influences the planets exercised over him in his birth: "'yit blisful venus, this night thou me enspyre,' quod troilus, 'as wis as i thee serve, and ever bet and bet shal, til i sterve. and if i hadde, o venus ful of murthe, aspectes badde of mars or of saturne, or thou combust[ ] or let were in my birthe, thy fader prey al thilke harm disturne.'"[ ] troilus does not forget to praise venus when criseyde is won at last: "than seyde he thus, 'o, love, o, charitee, thy moder eek, citherea the swete, after thy-self next heried be she, venus mene i, the wel-willy planete;'"[ ] and after criseyde has gone away to the greeks, it is to venus still that the lover utters his lament and prayer, saying that without the guidance of her beams he is lost: "'o sterre, of which i lost have al the light, with herte soor wel oughte i to bewayle, that ever derk in torment, night by night, toward my deeth with wind in stere i sayle; for which the tenthe night if that i fayle the gyding of thy bemes brighte an houre, my ship and me caribdis wol devoure:'"[ ] another effect of astrological faith on conduct was the choice of times for doing things of importance with reference to astrological conditions. when a man wished to set out on any enterprise of importance he very often consulted the positions of the stars to see if the time was propitious. thus in the _squieres tale_ it is said that the maker of the horse of brass "wayted many a constellacioun, er he had doon this operacioun;"[ ] that is, he waited carefully for the moment when the stars would be in the most propitious position, so that his undertaking would have the greatest possible chance of success. pandarus goes to his niece criseyde to plead for troilus at a time when the moon is favorably situated in the heavens: "and gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse, remembringe him his erand was to done from troilus, and eek his greet empryse; and caste and knew in good plyt was the mone-- to doon viage, and took his wey ful sone un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde."[ ] the kind of fatalism that chaucer's characters, as a rule, represent is well illustrated in the story of palamon and arcite, told by the knight in the _canterbury tales_. these two young nobles of thebes, cousins by relationship, are captured by theseus, king of athens, and imprisoned in the tower of his palace. from the window of the tower palamon espies the king's beautiful sister emelye walking in the garden and instantly falls in love. arcite, seeing his cousin's sudden pallor and hearing his exclamation which, chaucer says, sounded "as though he stongen were un-to the herte."[ ] thinks that palamon is complaining because of his imprisonment and urges him to bear in patience the decree of the heavens: "'for goddes love, tak al in pacience our prisoun, for it may non other be; fortune hath yeven us this adversitee. som wikke aspect or disposicioun of saturne, by sum constellacioun, hath yeven us this, al-though we hadde it sworn; so stood the heven whan that we were born; we moste endure it; this is the short and pleyn.'"[ ] this is the doctrine of necessity, and it suggests the stoic virtue of submission to fate; yet arcite's attitude toword his misfortune is not truly stoic, for there is none of that joy in submission here that the stoic felt in surrendering himself to the will of the powers above. arcite would resist fate if he could. palamon explains the cause of his woe and when arcite looks out and sees emelye he too falls a victim to love. then palamon knits his brows in righteous indignation. did he not love the beautiful lady first and trust his secret to his cousin and sworn brother? and was it not arcite's duty and solemn pledge to help and not hinder him in his love? arcite's defence shows that the fatalism that dominates his thought is a fatalism that excuses him for doing as he pleases: love knows no law, but is a law unto itself. therefore he must needs love emelye. "wostow nat wel the olde clerkes sawe, that 'who shal yeve a lover any lawe?' love is a gretter lawe, by my pan, than may be yeve to any erthly man. and therefore positif lawe and swich decree is broke al-day for love, in ech degree. a man moot nedes love, maugree his heed."[ ] when arcite is released from prison but banished from athens with the threat of death should he return, both men are utterly unhappy, arcite, because he can no longer see emelye, and palamon because he fears that arcite will return to athens with a band of kinsmen to aid him, and carry off emelye by force. after arcite has gone palamon reproaches the gods for determining the destiny of men so irrevocably without consulting their wishes or their deserts: "'o cruel goddes, that governe this world with binding of your word eterne, and wryten in the table of athamaunt your parlement, and your eterne graunt, what is mankinde more un-to yow holde than is the sheep, that rouketh in the folde?'"[ ] many a man, palamon says, suffers sickness, imprisonment and other misfortunes unjustly because of the inexorable destiny imposed upon him by the gods. even the lot of the beasts is better, for they do as they will and have nothing to suffer for it after death; whereas man must suffer both in this life and the next. this, surely, is not willing submission to fate. after some years palamon escapes from prison and encounters arcite, who has returned in disguise and become theseus' chief squire. they arrange to settle their differences by a duel next day. but destiny was guiding theseus' conduct too, so the narrator of the story says, and was so powerful that it caused a coincidence that might not happen again in a thousand years: "the destinee, ministre general, that executeth in the world over-al the purveyaunce, that god hath seyn biforn, so strong it is, that, though the world had sworn the contrarie of a thing, by ye or nay, yet somtyme it shal fallen on a day that falleth nat eft with-inne a thousand yere. for certeinly, our appetytes here, be it of werre, or pees, or hate, or love, al is this reuled by the sighte above."[ ] theseus goes hunting and with him, the queen and emelye. they of course interrupt the duel between palamon and arcite. through the intercession of the two women the duelists are pardoned and it is arranged that they settle their dispute by a tournament set for about a year later. on the morning before the tournament palamon, arcite, and emelye all go, at different hours, to pray and sacrifice to their respective patron deities. the times of their prayers are chosen according to astrological considerations, each going to pray in the hour[ ] that was considered sacred to the planet with which his patron deity was identified. palamon prays to venus only that he may win his love, whether by victory or defeat in the tournament makes no difference to him. after his sacrifices are completed, the statute of venus shakes and palamon, regarding this as a favorable sign goes away with glad heart. arcite prays mars for victory and is answered by a portent even more favorable than that given to palamon. not only does the statue of mars tremble so that his coat of mail resounds, but the very doors of the temple shake, the fire on the altar burns more brightly and arcite hears the word "victory" uttered in a low dim murmur. emelye does not want to be given in marriage to any man and so she prays to diana[ ], as the protectress of maidenhood, to keep her a maid. diana, the goddess, appears in her characteristic form as a huntress and tells emelye that the gods have decreed her marriage either to palamon or to arcite, but that it cannot yet be revealed to which one she is to be given. but now there is trouble in heaven. venus has promised that palamon shall have his love, and mars has promised arcite the victory. how are both promises to be fulfilled? chaucer humorously expresses the dilemma thus: "and richt anon swich stryf ther is bigonne for thilke graunting, in the hevene above, bitwixe venus, the goddesse of love, and mars, the sterne god armipotente, that iupiter was bisy it to stente; til that the pale saturnus the colde, that knew so manye of aventures olde, fond in his old experience an art, that he ful sone hath plesed every part."[ ] we had almost forgotten that all the gods to whom prayers have been uttered and sacrifices offered were anything more than pagan gods. but now, by the reference to saturn, "the pale saturnus the colde" suggesting the dimness of his appearance in the sky, we are reminded that these gods are also planets. but, to resume the story, saturn finds the remedy for the embarrassing situation. he rehearses his powers and then tells venus that her knight shall have his lady, but that mars shall be able to help his knight also. "'my dere doghter venus,' quod saturne, 'my cours, that hath so wyde for to turne, hath more power that wot any man. . . . . . . . . now weep namore, i shal doon diligence that palamon, that is thyn owne knight, shal have his lady, as thou hast him hight. though mars shal helpe his knight, yet nathelees bitwixe yow ther moot be som tyme pees, al be ye noght of o complexioun, that causeth al day swich divisioun.'"[ ] when the appointed time for the tourney arrives, in order that no means of securing the god's favor and so assuring success may be left untried, arcite, with his knights, enters through the gate of mars, his patron deity, and palamon through that of venus. palamon is defeated in the fight but saturn fulfills his promise to venus by inducing pluto to send an omen which frightens arcite's horse causing an accident in which arcite is mortally injured. in the end palamon wins emelye. although the scene of this story is laid in ancient athens, the characters are plainly mediaeval knights and ladies. throughout the poem, as in many of chaucer's writings, there is a curious mingling of pagan and christian elements, a strange juxtaposition of astrological notions, greek anthropomorphism and mediaeval christian philosophy. but pervading the whole is the idea of determinism, of the inability of the human will to struggle successfully against the destiny imposed by the powers of heaven, or against the capricious wills of the gods. chaucer had too keen a sense of humor, too sympathetic an outlook on life not to see the irony in the ceaseless spectacle of mankind dashing itself against the relentless wall of circumstances, fate, or what you will, in undying hope of attaining the unattainable. he saw the humor in this maelstrom of human endeavor--and he saw the tragedy too. the _knightes tale_ presents largely, i think, the humorous side of it, _troilus and criseyde_, the tragic, although there is some tragedy in the _knightes tale_ and some comedy in _troilus_. it was fate that troilus should love criseyde, that he should win her love for a time, and that in the end he should be deserted by her. from the very first line of the poem we know that he is doomed to sorrow: "the double sorwe of troilus to tellen, that was the king priamus sone of troye, in lovinge, how his aventures fellen fro we to wele, and after out of ioye, my purpos is, er that i parte fro ye."[ ] the tragedy of troilus is also the tragedy of criseyde, for even at the moment of forsaking troilus for diomede she is deeply unhappy over her unfaithfulness; but circumstance is as much to blame as her own yielding nature, for troilus' fate is bound up with the inexorable doom of troy, and she could not return to him if she would. there is no doubt that chaucer feels the tragedy of the story as he writes. in his proem to the first book he invokes one of the furies to aid him in his task: "thesiphone, thou help me for tendyte thise woful vers, that wepen as i wryte!"[ ] throughout the poem he disclaims responsibility for what he narrates, saying that he is simply following his author and that, once begun, somehow he must keep on. in the proem to the second book he says: "wherefore i nil have neither thank ne blame of al this werk, but pray you mekely, disblameth me, if any word be lame, for as myn auctor seyde, so seye i."[ ] and concludes the proem with the words,-- "but sin i have begonne, myn auctor shal i folwen, if i conne."[ ] when fortune turns her face away from troilus, and chaucer must tell of the loss of criseyde his heart bleeds and his pen trembles with dread of what he must write: "but al to litel, weylawey the whyle, lasteth swich ioye, y-thonked be fortune! that semeth trewest, whan she wol bygyle, and can to foles so hir song entune, that she hem hent and blent, traytour comune; and whan a wight is from hir wheel y-throwe, than laugheth she, and maketh him the mowe. from troilus she gan hir brighte face awey to wrythe, and took of him non hede, but caste him clene oute of his lady grace, and on hir wheel she sette up diomede; for which right now myn herte ginneth blede, and now my penne, allas! with which i wryte, quaketh for drede of that i moot endyte."[ ] chaucer tells of criseyde's faithlessness reluctantly, reminding the reader often that so the story has it: "and after this the story telleth us, that she him yaf the faire baye stede, the which she ones wan of troilus; and eek a broche (and that was litel nede) that troilus was, she yaf this diomede. and eek, the bet from sorwe him to releve, she made him were a pencel of hir sleve. i finde eek in the stories elles-where, whan through the body hurt was diomede of troilus, tho weep she many a tere, whan that she saugh his wyde woundes blede; and that he took to kepen him good hede, and for to hele him of his sorwes smerte, men seyn, i not, that she yaf him hir herte."[ ] and in the end for very pity he tries to excuse her: "ne me ne list this sely womman chyde ferther than the story wol devyse, hir name, allas! is publisshed so wyde, that for hir gilt it oughte y-now suffyse. and if i mighte excuse hir any wyse, for she so sory was for hir untrouthe, y-wis, i wolde excuse hir yet for routhe."[ ] we have said that chaucer's attitude toward the philosophical aspects of astrology is hard to determine because in most of his poems he takes an impersonal ironic point of view towards the actions he describes or the ideas he presents. his attitude toward the idea of destiny is not so hard to determine. fortune, the executrix of the fates through the influence of the heavens rules men's lives; they are the herdsmen, we are their flocks: "but o, fortune, executrice of wierdes, o influences of thise hevenes hye! soth is, that, under god, ye ben our hierdes, though to us bestes been the causes wrye."[ ] perhaps chaucer did not mean this literally. but one is tempted to think that he, like dante, thought of the heavenly bodies in their spheres as the ministers and instruments of a providence that had foreseen and ordained all things. appendix i. most of the terms at present used to describe the movements of the heavenly bodies were used in chaucer's time and occur very frequently in his writings. the significance of chaucer's references will then be perfectly clear, if we keep in mind that the modern astronomer's description of the _apparent_ movements of the star-sphere and of the heavenly bodies individually would have been to chaucer a description of _real_ movements. when we look up into the sky on a clear night the stars and planets appear to be a host of bright dots on the concave surface, unimaginably distant, of a vast hollow sphere at the canter of which we seem to be. astronomers call this expanse of the heavens with its myriad bright stars the _celestial sphere_ or the _star sphere_, and have imagined upon its surface various systems of circles. in descriptions of the earth's relation to the celestial sphere it is customary to disregard altogether the earth's diameter which is comparatively infinitesimal. if we stand on a high spot in the open country and look about us in all directions the earth seems to meet the sky in a circle which we call the _terrestrial horizon_. now if we imagine a plane passing through the center of the earth and parallel to the plane in which the terrestrial horizon lies, and if we imagine this plane through the earth's center extended outward in all directions to an infinite distance, it would cut the celestial sphere in a great circle which astronomers call the _celestial horizon_. on the celestial horizon are the north, east, south and west points. the plane of the celestial horizon is, of course, different for different positions of the observer on the earth. if we watch the sky for some time, or make several observations on the same night, we notice, by observing the changing positions of the constellations, that the stars move very slowly across the blue dome above us. the stars that rise due east of us do not, in crossing the dome of the sky, pass directly over our heads but, from the moment that we first see them, curve some distance to the south, and, after passing their highest point in the heavens, turn toward the north and set due west. a star rising due east appears to move more rapidly than one rising some distance to the north or south of the east point, because it crosses a higher point in the heavens and has, therefore, a greater distance to traverse in the same length of time. when we observe the stars in the northern sky, we discover that many of them never set but seem to be moving around an apparently fixed point at somewhat more than an angle of °[ ] above the northern horizon and very near the north star. these are called _circum-polar stars_. the whole celestial sphere, in other words, appears to be revolving about an imaginary axis passing through this fixed point, which is called the _north pole_ of the heavens, through the center of the earth and through an invisible pole (the south pole of the heavens) exactly opposite the visible one. this apparent revolution of the whole star sphere, as we know, is caused by the earth's rotation on its axis once every twenty-four hours from west to east. chaucer and his contemporaries believed it to be the actual revolution of the nine spheres from east to west about the earth as a center. [illustration: fig. .] for determining accurately the position of stars on the celestial sphere astronomers make use of various circles which can be made clear by a few simple diagrams. in figure , the observer is imagined to be at o. then the circle nesw is the celestial horizon, which we have described above. z, the point immediately above the observer is called the _zenith_, and z', the point immediately underneath, as indicated by a plumb line at rest, is the _nadir_. the line pop' is the imaginary axis about which the star-sphere appears to revolve, and p and p' are the poles of the heavens. the north pole p is elevated, for our latitude, at an angle of approximately ° from the north point on the horizon. pp' is called the _polar axis_ and it is evident that the earth's axis extended infinitely would coincide with this axis of the heavens. in measuring positions of stars with reference to the horizon astronomers use the following circles: any great circle of the celestial sphere whose plane passes through the zenith and nadir is called a _vertical circle_. the verticle circle spnz', passing through the poles and meeting the horizon in the north and south points, n and s, is called the _meridian circle_, because the sun is on this circle at true mid-day. the _meridian_ is the plane in which this circle lies. the vertical circle, ez'wz, whose plane is at right angles to the meridian, is called the _prime vertical_ and it intersects the horizon at the east and west points, e and w. these circles, and the measurements of positions of heavenly bodies which involve their use, were all employed in chaucer's time and are referred to in his writings.[ ] the distance of a star from the horizon, measured on a vertical circle, toward the zenith is called the star's _altitude_. a star reaches its greatest altitude when on the part of the meridional circle between the south point of the horizon, s, and the north pole, p. a star seen between the north pole and the north point on the horizon, that is, on the arc pn, must obviously be a _circum-polar star_ and would have its highest altitude when between the pole and the zenith, or on the arc pz. when a star reaches the meridian in its course across the celestial sphere it is said to _culminate_ or reach its _culmination_. the highest altitude of any star would therefore be represented by the arc of the meridional circle between the star and the south point of the horizon. this is called the star's _meridian altitude_. the _azimuth_ of a star is its angular distance from the south point, measured westward on the horizon, to a vertical circle passing through the star. the _amplitude_ of a star is its distance from the prime vertical, measured on the horizon, north or south. for the other measurements used by astronomers in observations of the stars still other circles on the celestial sphere must be imagined. we know that the earth's surface is divided into halves, called the northern and southern hemispheres, by an imaginary circle called the _equator_, whose plane passes through the center of the earth and is perpendicular to the earth's axis. if the plane of the earth's equator were infinitely extended it would describe upon the celestial sphere a great circle which would divide that sphere into two hemispheres, just as the plane of the terrestrial equator divides the earth into two hemispheres. this great circle on the celestial sphere is called the _celestial equator_, or, by an older name, the _equatorial_, the significance of which we shall see presently. a star rising due east would traverse this great circle of the celestial sphere and set due west. the path of such a star is represented in figure by the great circle emwm', which also represents the celestial equator. all stars rise and set following circles whose planes are parallel to that of the celestial equator and these circles of the celestial sphere are smaller and smaller the nearer they are to the pole, so that stars very near the pole appear to be encircling it in very small concentric circles. stars in an area around the north celestial pole, whose limits vary with the position of the observer never set for an observer in the northern hemisphere. there is a similar group of stars around the south pole for an observer in the southern hemisphere. [illustration: fig. .] the angle of elevation of the celestial equator to the horizon varies according to the position of the observer. if, for example, the observer were at the north pole of the earth, the north celestial pole would be directly above him and would therefore coincide with the zenith; this would obviously make the celestial equator and the horizon also coincide. if the observer should pass slowly from the pole to the terrestrial equator it is clear that the two circles would no longer coincide and that the angle between them would gradually widen until it reached °. then the zenith would be on the celestial equator and the north and south poles of the heavens would be on the horizon. we have still to define a great circle of the celestial sphere that is of equal importance with the celestial equator and the celestial horizon. this is the sun's apparent yearly path, or the _ecliptic_. we know that the earth revolves about the sun once yearly in an orbit that is not entirely round but somewhat eliptical. now since the earth, the sun, and the earth's orbit around the sun are always in one plane, it follows that to an observer on the earth the sun would appear to be moving around the earth instead of the earth around the sun. the sun's apparent path, moreover, would be in the plane of the earth's orbit and when projected against the celestial sphere, which is infinite in extent, would appear as a great circle of that sphere. this great circle of the celestial sphere is the ecliptic. the sun must always appear to be on this circle, not only at all times of the year but at all hours of the day; for as the sun rises and sets, the ecliptic rises and sets also, since the earth's rotation causes an apparent daily revolution not only of the sun, moon, and planets but also of the fixed stars and so of the whole celestial sphere and of all the circles whose positions upon it do not vary. the ecliptic is inclined to the celestial equator approximately - / °, an angle which obviously measures the inclination of the plane of the earth's equator to the plane of its orbit, since the celestial equator and the ecliptic are great circles on the celestial sphere formed by extending the planes of the earth's equator and its orbit to an infinite distance. since both the celestial equator and the ecliptic are great circles of the celestial sphere each dividing it into equal parts, it is evident that these two circles must intersect at points exactly opposite each other on the celestial sphere. these points are called the vernal and the autumnal equinoxes. we shall next define the astronomical measurements that correspond to terrestrial latitude and longitude. for some reason astronomers have not, as we might expect, applied to these measurements the terms 'celestial longitude' and 'celestial latitude.' these two terms are now practically obsolete, having been used formerly to denote angular distance north or south of the ecliptic and angular distance measured east and west along circles parallel to the ecliptic. the measurements that correspond in astronomy to terrestrial latitude and longitude are called _declination_ and _right ascension_ and are obviously made with reference to the celestial equator, not the ecliptic. for taking these measurements astronomers employ circles on the celestial sphere perpendicular to the plane of the celestial equator and passing through the poles of the heavens. these are called _hour circles_. the hour circle of any star is the great circle passing through it and perpendicular to the plane of the equator. the angular distance of a star from the equator measured along its hour circle, is called the star's declination and is northern or southern according as the star is in the northern or southern of the two hemispheres into which the plane of the equator divides the celestial sphere. it is evident that declination corresponds exactly to terrestrial latitude. right ascension, corresponding to terrestrial longitude, is the angular distance of a heavenly body from the vernal equinox measured on the celestial equator eastward to the hour circle passing through the body. the _hour angle_ of a star is the angular distance measured on the celestial equator from the meridian to the foot of the hour circle passing through the star. [illustration: fig. .] it remains to describe in greater detail the apparent movements of the sun and the sun's effect upon the seasons. in figure , the great circle mwm'e represents the equinoctial and xvx'a the ecliptic. the point x represents the farthest point south that the sun reaches in its apparent journey around the earth, and this point is called the _winter solstice_, because, for the northern hemisphere the sun reaches this point in mid-winter. when the sun is south of the celestial equator its apparent daily path is the same as it would be for a star so situated. thus its daily path at the time of the winter solstice, about december , can be represented by the circle xmn'. the arc gxh represents the part of the sun's path that would be above the horizon, showing that night would last much longer than day and the rays of the sun would strike the northern hemisphere of the earth more indirectly than when the sun is north of the equator. as the sun passes along the ecliptic from x toward v, the part of its daily path that is above the horizon gradually increases until at v, the vernal equinox, the sun's path would, roughly speaking, coincide with the celestial equator so that half of it would be above the horizon and half below and day and night would be of equal length. this explains why the celestial equator was formerly called the equinoctial (chaucer's term for it). as the sun passes on toward x' its daily arc continues to increase and the days to grow longer until at x' it reaches its greatest declination north of the equator and we have the longest day, june , the summer solstice. when the sun reaches this point, its rays strike the northern hemisphere more directly than at any other time causing the hot or summer season in this hemisphere. next the sun's daily arc begins to decrease, day and night to become more nearly equal, at a the autumnal equinox[ ] is reached and the sun again shapes its course towards the point of maximum declination south of the equator. the two points of maximum declination are called _solstices_. the two small circles of the celestial sphere, parallel to the equator, which pass through the two points where the sun's declination is greatest, are called _tropics_; the one in the northern hemisphere is called the _tropic of cancer_, that in the southern hemisphere, the _tropic of capricorn_. they correspond to circles on the earth's surface having the same names. ii. by "artificial day" chaucer means the time during which the sun is above the horizon, the period from sunrise to sunset. the arc of the artificial day may mean the extent or duration of it, as measured on the rim of an astrolabe, or it may mean (as here), the arc extending from the point of sunrise to that of sunset. see _astrolabe_ ii. . there has been some controversy among editors as to the correctness of the date occurring in this passage, some giving it as the th instead of the th. in discussing the accuracy of the reading "eightetethe" skeat throws light also upon the accuracy of the rest of the passage considered from an astronomical point of view. he says (vol. , p. ): "the key to the whole matter is given by a passage in chaucer's 'astrolabe,' pt. ii, ch. , where it is clear that chaucer (who, however merely translates from messahala) actually confuses the hour-angle with the azimuthal arc (see appendix i); that is, he considered it correct to find the hour of the day by noting _the point of the horizon_ over which the sun appears to stand, and supposing this point to advance, with a _uniform_, not a _variable_, motion. the host's method of proceeding was this. wanting to know the hour, he observed how far the sun had moved southward along the horizon since it rose, and saw that it had gone more than half-way from the point of sunrise to the exact southern point. now the th of april in chaucer's time answers to the th of april at present. on april , , the sun rose at hr. m., and set at hr. m., giving a day of about hr. m., the fourth part of which is at hr. m., or, with sufficient exactness, at _half past eight_. this would leave a whole hour and a half to signify chaucer's 'half an houre and more', showing that further explanation is still necessary. the fact is, however, that the host reckoned, as has been said, in another way, viz. by observing the sun's position _with reference to the horizon_. on april the sun was in the th degree of taurus at that date, as we again learn from chaucer's treatise. set this th degree of taurus on the east horizon on a globe, and it is found to be degrees to the north of the east point, or degrees from the south. the half of this at degrees from the south; and the sun would seem to stand above this th degree, as may be seen even upon a globe, at about a quarter past nine; but mr. brae has made the calculation, and shows that it was at _twenty minutes past nine_. this makes chaucer's 'half an houre and more' to stand for _half an hour and ten minutes_; an extremely neat result. but this we can check again by help of the host's _other_ observation. he _also_ took note, that the lengths of a shadow and its object were equal, whence the sun's altitude must have been degrees. even a globe will shew that the sun's altitude, when in the th degree of taurus, and at o'clock in the morning, is somewhere about or degrees. but mr. brae has calculated it exactly, and his result is, that the sun attained its altitude of degrees at _two minutes to ten_ exactly. this is even a closer approximation than we might expect, and leaves no doubt about the right date being the _eighteenth_ of april." thus it appears that chaucer's method of determining the date was incorrect but his calculations in observing the sun's position were quite accurate. for fuller particulars see chaucer's _astrolabe_, ed. skeat (e. e. t. s.) preface, p. . iii. it was customary in ancient times and even as late as chaucer's century to determine the position of the sun, moon, or planets at any time by reference to the signs of the zodiac. the _zodiac_ is an imaginary belt of the celestial sphere, extending ° on each side of the ecliptic, within which the orbits of the sun, moon, and planets appear to lie. the zodiac is divided into twelve equal geometric divisions ° in extent called _signs_ to each of which a fanciful name is given. the signs were once identical with twelve constellations along the zodiac to which these fanciful names were first applied. since the signs are purely geometric divisions and are counted from the spring equinox in the direction of the sun's progress through them, and since through the precession of the equinoxes the whole series of signs shifts westward about one degree in seventy-two years, the signs and constellations no longer coincide. beginning with the sign in which the vernal equinox lies the names of the zodiacal signs are aries (ram), taurus (bull), gemini (twins), cancer (crab), leo (lion), virgo (virgin), libra (scales), scorpio (scorpion), sagittarius (archer), aquarius (water-carrier), and pisces (fishes). in this passage, the line "that in the ram is four degrees up-ronne" indicates the date march . this can be seen by reference to figure in skeat's edition of chaucer's _astrolabe_ (e. e. t. s.) the astrolabe was an instrument for making observations of the heavenly bodies and calculating time from these observations. the most important part of the kind of astrolabe described by chaucer was a rather heavy circular plate of metal from four to seven inches in diameter, which could be suspended from the thumb by a ring attached loosely enough so as to allow the instrument to assume a perpendicular position. one side of this plate was flat and was called the _back_, and it is this part that figure represents. the back of the astrolabe planisphere contained a series of concentric rings representing in order beginning with the outermost ring: the four quadrants of a circle each divided into ninety degrees; the signs of the zodiac divided into thirty degrees each; the days of the year, the circle being divided, for this purpose, into - / equal parts; the names of the months, the number of days in each, and the small divisions which represent each day, which coincide exactly with those representing the days of the year; and lastly the saints' days, with their sunday-letters. the purpose of the signs of the zodiac is to show the position of the sun in the ecliptic at different times. therefore, if we find on the figure the fourth degree of aries and the day of the month corresponding to it, we have the date march as nearly as we can determine it by observing the intricate divisions in the figure. the next passage "noon hyer was he, whan she redy was" means evidently, 'he was no higher than this (i. e. four degrees) above the horizon when she was ready'; that is, it was a little past six. the method used in determining the time of day by observation of the sun's position is explained in the astrolabe ii, and . first the sun's altitude is found by means of the revolving rule at the back of the astrolabe. the rule, a piece of metal fitted with sights, is moved up and down until the rays of the sun shine directly through the sights. then, by means of the degrees marked on the back of the astrolabe, the angle of elevation of the rule is determined, giving the altitude of the sun. the rest of the process involves the use of the _front_ of the astrolabe. this side of the circular plate, shown in fig. , had a thick rim with a wide depression in the middle. on the rim were three concentric circles, the first showing the letters a to z, representing the twenty-four hours of the day, and the two innermost circles giving the degrees of the four quadrants. the depressed central part of the front was marked with three circles, the 'tropicus cancri', the 'aequinoctialis,' and the 'tropicus capricorni'; and with the cross-lines from north to south, and from east to west. there were besides several thin plates or discs of metal of such a size as exactly to drop into the depression spoken of. the principal one of these was the 'rete' and is shown in fig. . "it consisted of a circular ring marked with the zodiacal signs, subdivided into degrees, with narrow branching limbs both within and without this ring, having smaller branches or tongues terminating in points, each of which denoted the exact position of some well-known star. * * * the 'rete' being thus, as it were, a skeleton plate, allows the 'tropicus cancri,' etc., marked upon the body of the instrument, to be partially seen below it. * * * but it was more usual to interpose between the 'rete' and the body of the instrument (called the 'mother') another thin plate or disc, such as that in fig. , so that portions of this latter plate could be seen beneath the skeleton-form of the 'rete' (i. ). these plates were called by chaucer 'tables', and sometimes an instrument was provided with several of them, differently marked, for use in places having different latitudes. the one in fig. is suitable for the latitude of oxford (nearly). the upper part, above the horizon obliquus, is marked with circles of altitude (i. ), crossed by incomplete arcs of azimuth tending to a common centre, the zenith (i. )." [skeat, _introduction to the astrolabe_, pp. lxxiv-lxxv.] now suppose we have taken the sun's altitude by § (pt. ii of the _astrolabe_) and found it to be - / °. "as the altitude was taken by the back of the astrolabe, turn it over, and then let the _rete_ revolve westward until the st point of aries is just within the altitude-circle marked , allowing for the / degree by guess. this will bring the denticle near the letter c, and the first point of aries near x, which means a.m." [skeat's note on the _astrolabe_ ii. , pp. - ]. iv. chaucer would know the altitude of the sun simply by inspection of an astrolabe, without calculation. skeat has explained this passage in his _preface to chaucer's astrolabe_ (e. e. t. s.), p. lxiii, as follows: "besides saying that the sun was ° high, chaucer says that his shadow was to his height in the proportion of to . changing this proportion, we can make it that of to - / ; that is, the point of the _umbra versa_ (which is reckoned by twelfth parts) is - / or - / nearly. (umbra recta and umbra versa were scales on the back of the astrolabe used for computing the altitudes of heavenly bodies from the height and shadows of objects. the _umbra recta_ was used where the angle of elevation of an object was greater than °; the _umbra versa_, where it was less.) this can be verified by fig. ; for a straight edge, laid across from the th degree above the word 'occidens,' and passing through the center, will cut the scale of umbra versa between the th and th points. the sun's altitude is thus established as ° above the western horizon, beyond all doubt." v. _herberwe_ means 'position.' chaucer says here, then, that the sun according to his declination causing his position to be low or high in the heavens, brings about the seasons for all living things. in the _astrolabe_, i. , there is a very interesting passage explaining in detail, declination, the solstices and equinoxes, and change of seasons. chaucer is describing the front of the astrolabe. he says: "the plate under thy rite is descryved with principal cercles; of whiche the leste is cleped the cercle of cancer, by-cause that the heved of cancer turneth evermor consentrik up-on the same cercle. (this corresponds to the tropic of cancer on the celestial sphere, which marks the greatest northern declination of the sun.) in this heved of cancer is the grettest declinacioun northward of the sonne. and ther-for is he cleped the solsticioun of somer; whiche declinacioun, aftur ptholome, is degrees and minutes, as wel in cancer as in capricorne. (the greatest declination of the sun measures the obliquity of the ecliptic, which is slightly variable. in chaucer's time it was about ° ', and in the time of ptolemy about ° '. ptolemy assigns it too high a value.) this signe of cancre is cleped the tropik of somer, of _tropos_, that is to seyn 'agaynward'; for thanne by-ginneth the sonne to passe fro us-ward. (see fig. in skeat's _preface to the astrolabe_, vol. iii, or e. e. t. s. vol. .) the middel cercle in wydnesse, of thise , is cleped the cercle equinoxial (the celestial equator of the celestial sphere); up-on whiche turneth evermo the hedes of aries and libra. (these are the two signs in which the ecliptic crosses the equinoctial.) and understond wel, that evermo this cercle equinoxial turneth iustly fro verrey est to verrey west; as i have shewed thee in the spere solide. (as the earth rotates daily from west to east, the celestial sphere appears to us to revolve about the earth once every twenty-four hours from east to west. chaucer, of course, means here that the equinoctial actually revolves with the _primum mobile_ instead of only appearing to revolve.) this same cercle is cleped also the weyere, _equator_, of the day; for whan the sonne is in the hevedes of aries and libra, than ben the dayes and the nightes ilyke of lengthe in al the world. and ther-fore ben thise two signes called equinoxies. the wydeste of thise three principal cercles is cleped the cercle of capricorne, by-cause that the heved of capricorne turneth evermo consentrix up-on the same cercle. (that is to say, the tropic of capricorn meets the ecliptic in the sign capricornus, or, in other words, the sun attains its greatest declination southward when in the sign capricornus.) in the heved of this for-seide capricorne is the grettest declinacioun southward of the sonne, and ther-for is it cleped the solsticioun of winter. this signe of capricorne is also cleped the tropik of winter, for thanne byginneth the sonne to come agayn to us-ward." vi. the moon's orbit around the earth is inclined at an angle of about ° to the earth's orbit around the sun. the moon, therefore, appears to an observer on the earth as if traversing a great circle of the celestial sphere just as the sun appears to do; and the moon's real orbit projected against the celestial sphere appears as a great circle similar to the ecliptic. this great circle in which the moon appears to travel will, therefore, be inclined to the ecliptic at an angle of ° and the moon will appear in its motion never far from the ecliptic; it will always be within the zodiac which extends eight or nine degrees on either side of the ecliptic. the angular velocity of the moon's motion in its projected great circle is much greater than that of the sun in the ecliptic. both bodies appear to move in the same direction, from west to east; but the solar apparent revolution takes about a year averaging ° daily, while the moon completes a revolution from any fixed star back to the same star in about - / days, making an average daily angular motion of about °. the actual daily angular motion of the moon varies considerably; hence in trying to test out chaucer's references to lunar angular velocity it would not be correct to make use only of the average angular velocity since his references apply to specific times and therefore the variation in the moon's angular velocity must be taken into account. vii. on the line "in two of taur," etc., skeat has the following note: "tyrwhitt unluckily altered _two_ to _ten_, on the plea that 'the time (_four days complete_, l. ) is not sufficient for the moon to pass from the second degree of taurus into cancer? and he then proceeds to shew this, taking the _mean_ daily motion of the moon as being degrees, minutes, and seconds. but, as mr. brae has shewn, in his edition of chaucer's astrolabe, p. , footnote, it is a mistake to reckon here the moon's _mean_ motion; we must rather consider her _actual_ motion. the question is simply, can the moon move from the nd degree of taurus to the st of cancer (through degrees) in four days? mr. brae says decidedly, that examples of such motion are to be seen 'in every almanac.' for example, in the nautical almanac, in june, , the moon's longitude at noon was ° ' on the th, and ° ' on the th; i. e., the moon was in the _first_ of taurus on the former day, and in the _first_ of cancer on the latter day, at the same hour; which gives (very nearly) a degree more of change of longitude than we here require. the mss all have _two_ or _tuo_, and they are quite right. the motion of the moon is so variable that the mean motion affords no safe guide." [skeat, _notes to the canterbury tales_, p. .] viii. the moon's "waxing and waning" is due to the fact that the moon is not self-luminous but receives its light from the sun and to the additional fact that it makes a complete revolution around the earth with reference to the sun in - / days. when the earth is on the side of the moon that faces the sun we see the full moon, that is, the whole illuminated hemisphere. but when we are on the side of the moon that is turned away from the sun we face its unilluminated hemisphere and we say that we have a 'new moon.' once in every - / days the earth is in each of these positions with reference to the moon and, of course, in the interval of time between these two phases we are so placed as to see larger or smaller parts of the illuminating hemisphere of the moon, giving rise to the other visible phases. when the moon is between the earth and the sun she is said to be in _conjunction_, and is invisible to us for a few nights. this is the phase called _new moon_. as she emerges from conjunction we see the moon as a delicate crescent in the west just after sunset and she soon sets below the horizon. half of the moon's surface is illuminated, but we can see only a slender edge with the horns turned away from the sun. the crescent appears a little wider each night, and, as the moon recedes ° further from the sun each night, she sets correspondingly later, until in her first quarter half of the illuminated hemisphere is turned toward us. as the moon continues her progress around the earth she gradually becomes gibbous and finally reaches a point in the heavens directly opposite the sun when she is said to be in _opposition_, her whole illumined hemisphere faces us and we have _full moon_. she then rises in the east as the sun sets in the west and is on the meridian at midnight. as the moon passes from opposition, the portion of her illuminated hemisphere visible to us gradually decreases, she rises nearly an hour later each evening and in the morning is seen high in the western sky after sunrise. at her _third quarter_ she again presents half of her illuminated surface to us and continues to decrease until we see her in crescent form again. but now her position with reference to the sun is exactly the reverse of her position as a waxing crescent, so that her horns are now turned toward the west away from the sun, and she appears in the eastern sky just before sunrise. the moon again comes into conjunction and is lost in the sun's rays and from this point the whole process is repeated. ix. that the apparent motions of the sun and moon are not so complicated as those of the planets will be clear at once if we remember that the sun's apparent motion is caused by our seeing the sun projected against the celestial sphere in the ecliptic, the path cut out by the plane of the earth's orbit, while in the case of the moon, what we see is the moon's actual motion around the earth projected against the celestial sphere in the great circle traced by the moon's own orbital plane produced to an indefinite extent. these motions are further complicated by the rotation of the earth on its own axis, causing the rising and setting of the sun and the moon. these two bodies, however, always appear to be moving directly on in their courses, each completing a revolution around the earth in a definite time, the sun in a year, the moon in - / days. what we see in the case of the planets, on the other hand, is a complex motion compounded of the effects of the earth's daily rotation, its yearly revolution around the sun, and the planets' own revolutions in different periods of time in elliptical orbits around the sun. these complex planetary motions are characterized by the peculiar oscillations known as 'direct' and 'retrograde' movements. [illustration: fig. .] the motion of a planet is said to be _direct_ when it moves in the direction of the succession of the zodiacal signs; _retrograde_ when in the contrary direction. all of the planets have periods of retrograde and direct motion, though their usual direction is direct, from west to east. retrograde motion can be explained by reference to the accompanying diagrams. in fig. , the outer circle represents the path of the zodiac on the celestial sphere. let the two inner circles represent the orbits of the earth and an inferior planet, venus, around the sun, at s. (an _inferior_ planet is one whose orbit around the sun is within that of the earth. a _superior_ planet is one whose orbit is outside that of the earth.) v, v' and v", and e, e', and e" are successive positions of the two planets in their orbits, the arc vv" being longer than the arc ee" because the nearer a planet is to the sun, the greater is its velocity. then when venus is at v and the earth at e, we shall see venus projected on the celestial sphere at v{ }. when venus has passed on to v' the earth will have passed to e' and we shall see venus on the celestial sphere at v{ }. the apparent motion of the planet thus far will have been direct, from west to east in the order of the signs. but when venus is at v" and the earth at e" venus will be seen at v{ } having apparently moved back about two signs in a direction the reverse of that taken at first. this is called the planet's retrograde motion. at some point beyond v", the planet will appear to stop moving for a very short period and then resume its direct motion. in fig. , the outer arc again represents the path of the zodiac on the celestial sphere. the smaller arcs represent the orbits of the superior planet, mars, and the earth around the sun, s. at the point of opposition of mars (when mars and the sun are at opposite points in the heavens to an observer on the earth) we should see mars projected on the zodiac at m{ }. after a month mars will be at m' and the earth at e', so that in its apparent motion mars will have retrograded to m{ }. after three months from opposition mars will be at m" and the earth at e", making mars appear at m{ } on the celestial sphere, its motion having changed from retrograde to direct. [illustration: fig. .] both figures and take no account of the fact that the earth's orbit and those of the planets are not in exactly the same planes. remembering this fact we see at once that the apparent oscillations of the planets are not back and forth in a straight line but in curves and spirals. it is easy to see why the apparent motions of the planets were accounted for by deferents and epicycles, before the copernican system revealed the true nature of the solar system as heliocentric and not geocentric. selected bibliography berry, arthur, _a short history of astronomy_. new york. . bryant, w. w., _a history of astronomy_. london. . cumont, franz, _astrology and religion among the greeks and romans_. new york. . cushman, h. e., _a beginner's history of philosophy_. boston. . dreyer, j. l. e., _history of the planetary systems from thales to kepler_. cambridge. . evershed, m. a., _dante and the early astronomers_. london. . gomperz, t., _greek thinkers, a history of ancient philosophy_. new york. . gore j. ellard, _astronomical essays, historical and descriptive_. london. . hinks, a. r., _astronomy_. london. . jacoby, harold, _astronomy_. new york. . jastrow, morris, "astrology," _encyclopaedia britannica_ ii, - . lea, h. c., _history of the inquisition of the middle ages_. new york. . iii. - . orchard, t. n., _milton's astronomy_. new york. . taylor, h. o., _the mediaeval mind_. vols. new york. . todd, mabel l., _steele's popular astronomy_. new york. . traill, h. d., _social england_. new york and london. . wallace, a. r., _man's place in the universe_. london. . white, a. d., _warfare of science with theology_. new york and london. . i. . * * * * * chaucer, _the complete works of geoffrey chaucer_. w. w. skeat, edit. clarendon press. . chaucer, _treatise on the astrolabe_, a. e. brae, edit. london. . _cambridge history of english literature, the_, ed. by a. w. ward and a. r. waller. vol. ii. . ten brink, bernard, _history of english literature_. vol. ii. new york. . courthope, w. j., _literary history of the english people_. vol. i. new york. . hadow, grace e., _chaucer and his times_. new york. . hammond, eleanor p., _chaucer: a bibliographical manual_. new york. . jusserand, j. j., _history of english poetry_. vol. ii. london. . kittredge, g. l., _chaucer and his poetry_. harvard university press. . legouis, emile, _geoffrey chaucer_. trans. by l. lailavoix. london. . lounsbury, t. r., _studies in chaucer_. new york. . morley, henry, _english writers_. vol. v. london. ff. root, robert k., _the poetry of chaucer_. boston and new york. . tatlock, john s. p., "astrology and magic in chaucer's _franklin's tale_." kittredge anniversary papers. . tatlock, john s. p., _the scene of the franklin's tale visited_. chaucer society publications. . footnotes: [ ] the name of ptolemy occurs once in _the somnours tale_ (d. ): "as wel as euclide or (as) ptholomee." and once in _the astrolabe_, i. . : "whiche declinacioun, aftur ptholome, is degrees and minutes, as wel in cancer as in capricorne." the _almagest_ is mentioned in _the milleres tale_ (a. ): "his almageste and bokes grete and smale," twice in _the wif of bathes prologue_ occur both the name of the _almagest_ and that of its author: "'who-so that nil be war by othere men, by him shul othere men corrected be. the same wordes wryteth ptholomee; rede in his almageste, and take it there.'" (d. - ) "of alle men y-blessed moot he be, the wyse astrologien dan ptholome, that seith this proverbe in his almageste, 'of alle men his wisdom is the hyeste, that rekketh never who hath the world in honde.'" (d. - ) professor lounsbury (_studies in chaucer_, ii p. and pp. - ) has difficulty in explaining why chaucer makes the wife of bath attribute these moral maxims to ptolemy. he is inclined to think that chaucer, so to speak, was napping when he put these utterances into the mouth of the wife of bath; yet elsewhere he acknowledges that the supposition of confused memory on chaucer's part in this case is hard to reconcile with the knowledge he elsewhere displays of ptolemy's work. i think it very probable that chaucer's seeming slip here is deliberate art. the wife of bath is one of chaucer's most humorous creations and the blunders he here attributes to her are quite in keeping with her character. from her fifth husband, who was a professional scholar and a wide reader, she has picked up a store of scattered and incomplete information about books and names, and she loses no opportunity for displaying it. at any rate, whether or not chaucer had read the _almagest_ in translation, his many cosmological and astronomical references show clearly his acquaintance with the ptolemaic system of astronomy. [ ] an arabian scholar of the eighth century. [ ] . ff. "this tretis, divided in fyve parties, wole i shewe thee under ful lighte rewles and naked wordes in english; for latin ne canstow yit but smal, my lyte sone." [ ] "and lowis, yif so be that i shewe thee in my lighte english as trewe conclusiouns touching this matere, and naught only as trewe but as many and as subtil conclusiouns as ben shewed in latin in any commune tretis of the astrolabie, con me the more thank;" _prologue to the astrolabe_, - . [ ] skeat, _notes on the astrolabe, prologue_, . "warton says that 'john some and nicholas lynne' were both carmelite friars, and wrote calendars constructed for the meridian of oxford. he adds that nicholas lynne is said to have made several voyages to the most northerly parts of the world, charts of which he presented to edward iii. these charts are, however, lost." [ ] _the astrolabe_, i. . . according to warton the work in question is an introduction to judicial astronomy. (lounsbury, ii. .) [ ] f. . "his tables toletanes forth he broght." [ ] _englische studien_ iii . see also j. s. p. tatlock, "chaucer and dante," in _modern philology_, iii, . . [ ] _parlement of foules_, - . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, . [ ] _lenvoy de chaucer a scogan_, - . "by worde eterne whylom was hit shape that fro the fifte cercle, in no manere, ne mighte a drope of teres doun escape. but now so wepeth venus in hir spere, that with hir teres she wol drenche us here." [ ] since chaucer calls mars the lord of the third heaven and elsewhere speaks of venus as presiding over that sphere it is evident that he sometimes reckons from the earth outwards, and sometimes from the outer sphere of saturn towards the earth. the regular order of the planets, counting from the earth, was supposed to be as follows: moon, mercury, venus, sun, mars, jupiter, saturn, making mars the third from the last. [ ] iii. - . [ ] "o firste moevyng cruel firmament, with thy diurnal sweigh that crowdest ay and hurlest al from est til occident, that naturelly wolde holde another way." (b. - ) chaucer does not use the term 'firmament' with sole reference to the star-sphere. here it clearly refers to the _primum mobile_; it often applies to the whole expanse of the heavens. [ ] _boethius_, book i: metre v, - . the conception of god as the creator and unmoved mover of the universe originated in the philosophy of aristotle, who was the one great authority, aside from scripture and the church fathers, recognized by the middle ages. god's abode was thought to be in the empyrean, the motionless sphere beyond the ninth, and the last heaven. this is the meaning in the reference to the eternal throne ("perdurable chayer") of god. [ ] many of these beautiful descriptions, however, are not strictly chaucer's own, since they occur in his translation of boethius. it will suffice to quote one of these descriptions: "and, right by ensaumple as the sonne is hid whan the sterres ben clustred (_that is to seyn, whan sterres ben covered with cloudes_) by a swifte winde that highte chorus, and that the firmament stant derked by wete ploungy cloudes, and that the sterres nat apperen up-on hevene, so that the night semeth sprad up-on erthe: yif thanne the wind that highte borias, y-sent out of the caves of the contres of trace, beteth this night (_that is to seyn, chaseth it a-wey_), and descovereth the closed day: than shyneth phebus y-shaken with sodein light, and smyteth with his bemes in mervelinge eyen." (_boethius_, book i.: metre iii. - .) [ ] _hymn on the nativity_, xiii. [ ] _the merchant of venice_, act. v. sc. i. [ ] _parlement of foules_, - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] _hous of fame_, ii. ff. [ ] _seconde nonnes tale_, g. - . [ ] _the seconde nonnes tale_, g. - . [ ] a. . [ ] b. ff. [ ] _the persones tale_, i. ff.: "ther shal the sterne and wrothe luge sitte above, and under him the horrible put of helle open to destroyen him that moot biknowen hise sinnes, whiche sinnes openly been shewed biforn god and biforn every creature. and on the left syde, mo develes than herte may bithinke, for to harie and drawe the sinful soules to the pyne of helle. and with-inne the hertes of folk shal be the bytinge conscience, and withoute-forth shal be the world al brenninge." [ ] _the persones tale_, i. - . [ ] _the wife of bath's prologue_, d. . [ ] _the marchantes tale_, e. ff. [ ] _the knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, bk. iv. . [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. . [ ] _ibid._ e. - . [ ] _the legend of good women_, iii. ff. [ ] _the monkes tale_, b. . [ ] _the pardoneres tale_, c. - . [ ] in the time of hamurabi, , years before christ, the chaldeans worshipped as beneficent or formidable powers, the earth, that may give or refuse sustenance to man, the waters that fertilize or devastate, the winds that blow from the four quarters of the world, fire that warms or devours and all forces of nature which, in their sidereal religion, they confounded with the stars, giving them the generic name of 'elements.' but the system that recognizes only four elements as the original sources of all that exists in nature, was created by the greek philosophers. see f. cumont, _astrology and religion among the greeks and romans_ ( ), p. . [ ] _paradiso_ i. - . [ ] _paradiso_ i. - . [ ] book iii.: metre ix. ff. [ ] _the knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. - . [ ] _boethius_, book iv.; metre i. l ff. [ ] _the hous of fame_, ii. - . [ ] _boethius_, book ii.: metre viii. l. ff. "that the world with stable feith varieth acordable chaunginges; that the contrarious qualitee of elements holden among hemself aliaunce perdurable; ... --al this acordaunce of things is bounden with love, that governeth erthe and see, and hath also commaundements to the hevenes. and yif this love slakede the brydeles, alle things that now loven hem to-gederes wolden maken a bataile continuely, and stryven to fordoon the fasoun of this worlde, the whiche they now leden in acordable feith by faire moevinges." the thought of love as the harmonizing bond between diverse elements is dealt with more poetically in _troilus and criseyde_, bk. iii. - . "'love, that of erthe and see hath governaunce, love, that his hestes hath in hevene hye, . . . . . . . . . . that that the world with feyth, which that is stable, dyverseth so his stoundes concordinge, that elements that been so discordable holden a bond perpetuely duringe. that phebus mote his rosy day forth bringe, and that the mone hath lordship over the nightes, al this doth love; ay heried be his mightes!'" [ ] skeat, _notes to boethius_, ii.: metre , . . [ ] . - . [ ] _the phisiciens tale_, c. - . [ ] see appendix, i. [ ] b. l ff. "our hoste sey wel that the brighte sonne the ark of his artificial day had ronne the fourthe part, and half an houre, and more; and though he were not depe expert in lore, he wiste it was the eightetethe day of april, that is messager to may; and sey wel that the shadwe of every tree was as in lengthe the same quantitee that was the body erect that caused it. and therefor by the shadwe he took his wit that phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte, degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte; and for that day, as in that latitude, it was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude, and sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute." for chaucer's accuracy in this reference see appendix ii. [ ] _prologue_, - . [ ] planets are said to be in conjunction with one another when they appear as one object or very close together within a limited area of the sky. [ ] _the hous of fame_, book i. - . cf. dante, _paradiso_ i. - : "i not long endured him, nor yet so little but that i saw him sparkle all around, like iron issuing molten from the furnace. and, of a sudden, meseemed that day was added unto day, as though he who hath the power, had adorned heaven with a second sun." [ ] _the marchantes tale_, e. - . [ ] _prologue to the legend of good women_, - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. . [ ] _ibid._ v, . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, . the epithet "candel of ielosye" is an allusion to the classical myth according to which phoebus (the sun), having discovered the amour between mars and venus, revealed it to vulcan thus arousing him to jealousy. [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, ii, - . [ ] _ibid._ v. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. - . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . [ ] see appendix iii. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _parson's prologue_, i. - . see appendix iv. [ ] _nonne preestes tale_, b. - . chaucer has already indicated the date as may by saying that march is complete and thirty-two days have passed besides. (l. ). that the sun would on may have passed the st degree of aries can be verified by reference to fig. in skeat's _introduction to the astrolabe_. a straight edge ing may would cross the circle of the zodiacal signs at a point a little past the st degree of aries. [ ] ascension means 'ascending degree.' [ ] _nonne preestes tale_, b. - . [ ] the sun reaches his farthest point to the south at noon when on the meridian. see appendix i. [ ] _prologue_, . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . [ ] see appendix i. ff., ff. [ ] _prologue to the canterbury tales_, a. - . at the beginning of april the sun is a little past the middle of aries and at the beginning of may, roughly speaking, he is in the middle of taurus. thus the sun in april runs a half-course in aries and a half-course in taurus. chaucer means here that the former of these half-courses is completed, so that it is some time after the eleventh of april. [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, ii. - . on the third of may, in chaucer's time, the sun would be past the twentieth degree of taurus. [ ] the sun's declination means his angular distance north or south of the celestial equator. the solstices mark his maximum declination north or south. see appendix i. ff. [ ] v. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . see appendix v. [ ] latoun was a compound metal containing chiefly copper and zinc. [ ] f. - . [ ] _astrolabe_, _prologue_, - . [ ] _legend of good women_, iii. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. . [ ] _book of the duchesse_, - . [ ] _romaunt of the rose_, - . [ ] see appendix vi. [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. - . to pass from the second degree of taurus into cancer the moon would have to traverse the remaining twenty-eight degrees of taurus, thirty of gemini and at least one of cancer, making ° of the zodiac in all. for the moon to do this is possible, as skeat has shown. see appendix vii. [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. - . chaucer's reference to the moon's motion is again correct. it would, in fact, take the moon about ten days to pass from aries through leo, traversing four signs, taurus, gemini, cancer, and leo, or about one-third of the whole zodiac. see skeat, _notes to troilus and criseyde_, p. . [ ] the moon. [ ] the 'sign-bearer'; that is, the zodiac. his candles are of course the stars and planets that appear in the zodiac. [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. - ; - . [ ] _legend of good women_, - . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, . [ ] _hous of fame_, - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. . [ ] _ibid._ v. . "by the morwe" means 'early in the morning.' [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. edt-ej. see appendix viii. p. . [ ] book i.: metre v. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . skeat explains the lines: "next at this opposicioun, which in the signe shal be of the leoun," thus: earlier in the poem (l. ) may is mentioned and it is on this date that the events narrated so far are supposed to have taken place. in may the sun is in taurus, so that the moon at her next opposition would have to be in the opposite sign, scorpio. the reference must mean therefore:--"at the next opposition that takes place with the sun in leo," not the very next one with the sun in taurus, nor the next with the sun in gemini or cancer. this reason for waiting until there should be an opposition with the sun in leo, was astrological. leo was the _mansion_ of the sun, so that the sun's power when in that sign would be greatest. [ ] b. - . [ ] book iv.: metre v. - . [ ] ibid. - . [ ] see appendix ix. p. ff. [ ] _hous of fame_, iii. - . [ ] _book of the duchesse_, iii. - . [ ] _astrolabe_, ii. . - . the attempt to explain the moon's motion by supposing her to move in an epicycle was hopelessly wrong. chaucer means here simply that the moon's motion in her deferent is direct like that of the other planets (their apparent motion is in the direction west to east except at short periods of retrogression) but that the moon's direction of motion in her epicycle is the reverse of that of the other planets. [ ] ii. . [ ] see appendix ix. p. ff. [ ] book i: metre ii. - . [ ] mercury and venus are always seen either just before sunrise or just after sunset because their distances from the sun are so comparatively small. [ ] _boethius_, bk. i.: metre v. - . [ ] _ibid._ bk. iii.: metre i. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, bk. iii. - . [ ] _ibid._ v. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] . [ ] this is an astrological term. a _palace_, _mansion_ or _house_ was that zodiacal sign in which a planet was supposed to be peculiarly at home. [ ] _compleynt of mars_, - . mars is to hurry until he reaches venus' palace and then advance as slowly as possible, to wait for her. evidently chaucer was aware of the varying apparent velocities of planetary motions. [ ] _ibid._ - . when venus overtakes mars they are in conjunction. [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] that is, the motions of both planets are direct, not retrograde. [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] that is, the two planets appear very close together in the sky. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] - : "the grete ioye that was betwix hem two, whan they be met, ther may no tunge telle." [ ] ii. . [ ] iii. - . [ ] _convivio_, ii. xv. . [ ] - . [ ] _hous of fame_, ii. - . [ ] _inferno_, xvii. - . [ ] _convivio_, ii. xv. - . [ ] mrs. john evershed, _dante and the early astronomers_, p. . [ ] _prologue to the canterbury tales_, a. - . [ ] ii. . - . [ ] f. - . [ ] f. - . [ ] f. - . [ ] _studies in chaucer_, vol. ii. , ff. [ ] "the scene of _the franklin's tale_ visited," _chaucer society publications_, ( ); "astrology and magic in chaucer's _franklin's tale_;" _kittredge anniversary papers_ ( ). [ ] _chaucer and his poetry_, p. , ff. [ ] the principal aspects were conjunction, sextile, quartile, trine, and opposition, corresponding respectively to the angular distances °, °, °, ° and °. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _tale of the man of lawe_, b. - . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. - . [ ] ix. - . [ ] her father, egistes, because he feared her husband, bade her kill him by cutting his throat, and threatened her with death if she refused. [ ] in astrology the signs of the zodiac were called 'houses' or 'mansions' and each was assigned to a particular planet. when a planet was in its house or mansion, its power was very great. each of the planets had also a sign called its 'exaltation' and in this sign its power was greatest of all. the sign opposite a planet's mansion was called its 'fall' and that opposite its exaltation was called its 'depression'; these were the positions of least influence. mars' mansions were aries and scorpio; his exaltation, capricornus; his fall, libra and taurus, and his depression, cancer. at the time of hypermnestra's birth, then, we may suppose that mars was in libra, taurus or in cancer. if he was in libra or taurus, his influence would be suppressed by venus, as these signs were in her mansions. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] _astrolabe_, ii. . - . the term "hous" is here used in a different sense from that in the passage explained above, p. . the whole heavens were divided into twelve portions by great circles passing through the north and south points of the horizon. the one of these just rising was called the 'house of the ascendant.' [ ] _wife of bath's prologue_, d. - . the line "myn ascendent was taur, and mars ther-inne" means that at the time of her birth taurus was just rising in the east and mars was in this sign, and as taurus was the mansion of venus, the influences of the two planets would be mingled. [ ] d. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] iii. - . [ ] iii. - . [ ] - . [ ] - . [ ] - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. - ; - . [ ] i. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] a planet was said to be _combust_ when its light was extinguished by proximity to the sun. when venus and mercury were 'combust' their influence was lost. [ ] iii. - . it is sometimes hard to determine whether the beings prayed to are pagan gods and goddesses or heavenly bodies. this passage makes it clear that the planets were identified with the pagan divinities. in the rest of this prayer troilus addresses mars, mercury, jupiter, etc., as gods, referring in each case to some love affair, from ancient myth, that may win the god's sympathy and help. [ ] iii. - . the "wel-willy planete" means the propitious or favorable one. [ ] v. - . troilus needs the aid of venus especially on the tenth night after criseyde's departure, because she had promised to return on that night. [ ] f. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] _knightes tale_, a. . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] a. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] a. - . this is the mediaeval christian idea of destiny or the fore-knowledge of god, and is appropriately uttered here by the knight. [ ] a. ff; ff; ff. [ ] diana was called _luna_ (or the moon) in heaven, on earth, _diana_ or _lucina_, and in hell, _proserpina_. [ ] a. - . [ ] a. - ; - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, i. - . [ ] _ibid._ i. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] iv. - . [ ] v. - . [ ] v. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. - . [ ] for chaucer's locality, °. [ ] see the _astrolabe_, i. , . vertical circles are called _azimuths_ by chaucer. [ ] strictly speaking, the equinoxes and solstices are each simply an instant of time. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. subscripted characters are indicated by {subscript}. generously made available by the internet archive.) chaucer and his england by the same author from st. francis to dante. "a more enlightening picture than any we have yet read."--_times._ "it will, i hope, be read by every one who wants to know what the middle ages were really like."--dr. rashdall in _independent review_. "extraordinarily vivacious, fresh, and vivid."--mr. c. f. g. masterman, m.p., in _speaker_. friar's lantern: a mediæval fantasia. "written with undeniable ability."--_times._ "worthy of a place beside the 'cloister and the hearth' as a true work of art."--_commonwealth._ father rhine; with illustrations. "this is a very pleasant book of journeying."--_spectator._ public schools and public needs. "if the 'man in the street,' who and whoever he be, will take the trouble to read it, his eyes will be opened."--_times._ mediÆval studies: seven essays mostly reprinted from the monthly and quarterly reviews. [illustration: portrait of chaucer painted by order of his pupil thomas hoccleve, in a copy of the latter's "regement of princes." the hair and beard are grey, the eyes hazel: he has a rosary in his left hand and a black pencase or penknife hangs from his neck] chaucer and his england by g. g. coulton, m.a. author of "from st. francis to dante," etc. with thirty-two illustrations methuen & co. essex street w.c. london _first published in _ preface no book of this size can pretend to treat exhaustively of all that concerns chaucer and his england; but the author's main aim has been to supply an informal historical commentary on the poet's works. he has not hesitated, in a book intended for the general public, to modernize chaucer's spelling, or even on rare occasions to change a word. his best acknowledgments are due to those who have laboured so fruitfully during the last fifty years in publishing chaucerian and other original documents of the later middle ages; more especially to dr. f. j. furnivall, the indefatigable founder of the chaucer society and the early english text society; to professor w. w. skeat, whose ungrudging generosity in private help is necessarily known only to a small percentage of those who have been aided by his printed works; to dr. r. r. sharpe, archivist of the london guildhall; to prebendary f. c. hingeston-randolph and other editors of episcopal registers; to messrs. w. hudson and walter rye for their contributions to norfolk history; and to mr. v. b. redstone's researches in chaucerian genealogy. his proofs have enjoyed the great advantage of revision by dr. furnivall, who has made many valuable suggestions and corrections, but who is in no way responsible for other possible errors or omissions. the many debts to other writers are, it is hoped, duly acknowledged in their places; but the author must here confess himself specially beholden to the writings of m. jusserand, whose rare sympathy and insight are combined with an equal charm of exposition. he has also to thank dr. f. j. furnivall, messrs. e. kelsey and h. r. browne of eastbourne, and the librarian of uppingham school, for kind permission to reproduce seven of the illustrations; also the editor of the _home and counties magazine_ for similar courtesy with regard to the plan of chaucer's aldgate included in a th-century survey published for the first time in that magazine (vol. i. p. ). eastbourne contents page preface v list of illustrations xi chapter i england in embryo chapter ii boyhood and youth chapter iii the king's squire chapter iv the ambassador chapter v the man of business chapter vi last days chapter vii london custom-house chapter viii aldgate tower chapter ix town and country chapter x the laws of london chapter xi "canterbury tales"--the _dramatis personÆ_ chapter xii "canterbury tales"--first and second days chapter xiii "canterbury tales"--third and fourth days chapter xiv king and queen chapter xv knights and squires chapter xvi husbands at the church door chapter xvii the gay science chapter xviii the great war chapter xix the burden of the war chapter xx the poor chapter xxi merry england chapter xxii the king's peace chapter xxiii priests and people chapter xxiv conclusion index list of illustrations in the text page medieval cock-fighting, actual and metaphorical _from strutt's "sports and pastimes"_ plans of medieval dwellings medieval mummers _from strutt's "sports and pastimes"_ pilgrims in bed at inn _from t. wright's "homes of other days"_ the squire of the "canterbury tales" _from the ellesmere ms. ( th century)_ the miller _from the ellesmere ms._ the wife of bath _from the ellesmere ms._ the friar _from the ellesmere ms._ peacock feast of lynn _from stothard's facsimile of the original brass_ a knight and his lady _from boutell's "monumental brasses"_ a bevy of ladies _from t. wright's "womankind in western europe"_ list of plates the hoccleve portrait of chaucer _frontispiece_ _from the painting in "the regement of princes"_ facing page london bridge, etc., in the th century _from vertue's engraving of aggas's map_ westminster hall _from a photograph by j. valentine & sons_ a travelling carriage _from the louterell psalter_ westminster abbey and palace in the th century _from vertue's engraving of aggas's map_ westminster abbey _from a photograph by s. b. bolas & co._ the tower, with london bridge in the background _from ms. roy. f. ii. f. _ a tooth-drawer of the th century _from ms. roy. vi. e. , f. b_ aldgate and its surroundings, as reconstituted in w. newton's "london in the olden time" a party of pilgrims _from ms. roy. d. ii. f. _ canterbury _from w. smith's drawing of . (sloane ms. )_ edward iii. _from his tomb in westminster abbey_ philippa of hainault _from her tomb in westminster abbey_ sir geoffrey louterell, with his wife and daughter _from the louterell psalter (early th century)_ seal of uppingham school corporal punishment in a th century classroom _from ms. roy. vi. e. , f. _ william of hatfield, son of edward iii. and philippa _from his tomb in york minster ( )_ bodiam castle, kent the ploughman _from the louterell psalter (early th century)_ the clergy-house at alfriston, sussex, before its recent restoration westminster abbey--view from near chaucer's tomb _from a photograph by s. b. bolas & co._ chaucer and his england chapter i england in embryo "o born in days when wits were fresh and clear, and life ran gaily as the sparkling thames!" few men could lay better claim than chaucer to this happy accident of birth with which matthew arnold endows his scholar gipsy, if we refrain from pressing too literally the poet's fancy of a golden age. chaucer's times seemed sordid enough to many good and great men who lived in them; but few ages of the world have been better suited to nourish such a genius, or can afford a more delightful travelling-ground for us of the th century. there is indeed a glory over the distant past which is (in spite of the paradox) scarcely less real for being to a great extent imaginary; scarcely less true because it owes so much to the beholder's eye. it is like the subtle charm we feel every time we set foot afresh on a foreign shore. it is just because we should never dream of choosing france or germany for our home that we love them so much for our holidays; it is just because we are so deeply rooted in our own age that we find so much pleasure and profit in the past, where we may build for ourselves a new heaven and a new earth out of the wreck of a vanished world. the very things which would oppress us out of all proportion as present-day realities dwindle to even less than their real significance in the long perspective of history. all the oppressions that were then done under the sun, and the tears of such as were oppressed, show very small in the sum-total of things; the ancient tale of wrong has little meaning to us who repose so far above it all; the real landmarks are the great men who for a moment moulded the world to their own will, or those still greater who kept themselves altogether unspotted from it. human nature gives the lie direct to mark antony's bitter rhetoric: it is rather the good that lives after a man, and the evil that is oft interred with his bones. the balance may not be very heavy, but it is on the right side; man's insatiable curiosity about his fellow-men is as natural as his appetite for food, which may on the whole be trusted to refuse the evil and choose the good; and, in both cases, his taste is, within obvious limits, a true guide. it is a healthy instinct which prompts us to dwell on the beauties of an ancient timber-built house, or on the gorgeous pageantry of the middle ages, without a too curious scrutiny of what may lie under the surface; and at this distance the th century stands out to the modern eye with a clearness and brilliancy which few men can see in their own age, or even in that immediate past which must always be partially dimmed with the dust of present-day conflicts. those who were separated by only a few generations from the middle ages could seldom judge them with sufficient sympathy. even two hundred years ago, most englishmen thought of that time as a great forest from which we had not long emerged; they looked back and saw it in imagination as dante saw the dark wood of his own wanderings--bitter as death, cruel as the perilous sea from which a spent swimmer has just struggled out upon the shore. then, with goethe and scott, came the romantic revival; and these men showed us the middle ages peopled with living creatures--beasts of prey, indeed, in very many cases, but always bright and swift and attractive, as wild beasts are in comparison with the commonplace stock of our fields and farmyards--bright in themselves, and heightened in colour by the artificial brilliancy which perspective gives to all that we see through the wrong end of a telescope. since then men have turned the other end of the telescope on medieval society, and now, in due course, the microscope, with many curious results. but it is always good to balance our too detailed impressions with a general survey, and to take a brief holiday, of set purpose, from the world in which our own daily work has to be done, into a race of men so unlike our own even amid all their general resemblance. for the england of edward iii. was already, in its main national features, the england in which we live to-day. "in no country of europe are the present-day institutions and manners and beliefs so directly derived from the social state of five centuries ago."[ ] the year , which saw the abolition of the law of englishry, was very likely the exact year of chaucer's birth; and from that time forward our legislation ceased to recognize any distinction of races: all natives of england were alike englishmen. sixteen years later it was first enacted that cases in the sheriff's courts of london should be pleaded in english; seven years later, again, this became in theory the language not only of the king's law courts, but also to some extent of parliament; and nicolas quotes an amusing instance of two ambassadors to france, a knight and a doctor of laws, who confessed in "we are as ignorant of french as of hebrew." the contemporary trevisa apparently attributes this rapid breakdown to the great pestilence of ; but even before this the french language must have been in full decay among us, for at the parliament which edward iii. called in to advise him about declaring war on france, the ambassador of robert d'artois took care to speak "in english, in order to be understanded of all folk, for a man ever knoweth better what he would say and propose in the language of his childhood than in any other." later in the same year, in the famous statute which forbade all sports except the longbow, it was further ordained "that all lords, barons, knights, and honourable men of good towns should be careful and diligent to teach and instruct their children in the french tongue, whereby they might be the more skilful and practised in their wars."[ ] but acts of parliament are not omnipotent even in the th century; and in the th they often represented rather pious aspirations than workaday facts. it was easier to foster a healthy pastime like archery than to enforce scholastic regulations which parents and masters were alike tempted to neglect; and certainly the french language lost ground very rapidly in the latter half of the century. in english superseded french as the spoken language of the law courts; next year the chancellor opened parliament in an english speech; and in trevisa complained that boys at grammar-schools "know no more french than their left heel." the language lingered, of course. chaucer's friend and contemporary, gower, wrote as much in french as in english. french still kept the upper hand in parliament till about fifty years after chaucer's death, nor did the statutes cease altogether to be published in that language until the reign of henry viii. but though it was still the court tongue in chaucer's time, and though we do not know that edward iii. was capable of addressing his commons in their native tongue, yet henry iv. took care to claim the throne before parliament in plain english;[ ] and even before that time french had already become an exotic, an artificial dialect needing hothouse culture--no longer french of paris, but that of "stratford attë bowë."[ ] the tongue sat ill on a nation that was already proud of its insularity and unity. even while labouring to write in french, gower dedicates his work to his country: "o gentile engletere, a toi j'escrits." it is not the least of chaucer's claims on our gratitude that, from the very first, he wrote for the english people in english--that is, in the mixed dialect of anglo-saxon and norman-french which was habitually spoken in london by the upper middle classes of a mingled norman and teutonic population[ ]--and that in so doing he laid the foundations of a national literary language. much, of course, still remained to be done. caxton, in , shows us how an englishman might well be taken for a frenchman outside his own country,[ ] as in modern germany a foreigner who speaks fluently, however incorrectly, passes easily for a german of some remote and barbarous province. indeed, english unity in chaucer's time was as recent as that of the modern german empire. men would still go before bishops and magistrates to purge themselves by a solemn oath from the injurious suspicion of being scots, and therefore enemies to the realm; and a couple of generations earlier the suspected welshman had found himself under the same necessity. the articles of peace drawn up in at oxford between the northern and irish scholars "read like a treaty of peace between hostile nations rather than an act of university legislation"; and even at the end of chaucer's life we may find royal letters "licensing john russell, born in ireland, to reside in england, notwithstanding the proclamation that all irish-born were to go and stay in their own country." but the oxford _concordia_ of was the last which recognized that division of students into "nations" which still remained so real at paris and other continental universities; and though blood still reddened oxford streets for a century longer in the ancient quarrel of north and south, yet the "great slaughter" of was entirely a town and gown affray.[ ] the foundations of modern england were laid by edward i., who did more than any other king to create a national parliament, a national system of justice, and a national army.[ ] edward iii., with far less creative power, but with equal energy and ambition, inherited the ripe fruits of his grandfather's policy, and raised england to a place in european politics which she had never reached before and was seldom to reach again. "that which touches all," said edward i., "should be approved by all"; and, though continental sovereigns might use similar language as a subtle cloke for their arbitrary encroachments, in england the maxim had from the first a real meaning. the great barons--themselves steadily dwindling in feudal power--no longer sat alone in the king's councils; by their side sat country gentlemen and citizens elected to share in the responsibilities of government; and the clergy, but for their own persistent separatism, might have sent their chosen representatives to sit with the rest. moreover, already in chaucer's time we find precedents for the boldest demands of the long parliament. the commons claimed, and for a time obtained, the control of taxation; and five of richard ii.'s ministers were condemned as traitors for counselling him to measures which parliament branded as unconstitutional. professor maitland has well described the "omnicompetence" of parliament at this time. nothing human was alien to its sphere of activity, from the sale of herrings at yarmouth fair and the fashion of citizens' girdles to those great constitutional questions which remained in dispute for three centuries longer, and were only settled at last by a civil war and a revolution. nor was the judicial system less truly national than the parliament. maitland has pointed out that the years - were more fruitful in epoch-making legislation than any other period of english history, except perhaps that which succeeded the reform bill of . chaucer, like ourselves, lived in an age which was consolidating the great achievements of two generations past, and looking forward to far-reaching social changes in the future. already in his time the roman law was outlandish in england; our land laws were fixed in many principles which for centuries remained unquestioned, and which are often found to underlie even the present system. already under edward iii., as for many centuries afterwards, men looked upon the main principles of english jurisprudence as settled for ever, and strove only by a series of ingenious accommodations to fit them in with the requirements of a changing world. the framework of the law courts, again, was roughly that of modern england. the king's judges were no longer clerics, but laymen chosen from among the professional pleaders in the courts; and here again "one remarkable characteristic of our legal system is fixed." in many other ways, too, the kingdom had outgrown its clerical tutelage. learning and art had long since ceased to be predominantly monastic; for at least two centuries before chaucer's birth they had left the protection of the cloister, and flourished far more luxuriantly in the great world than they ever could have done under strictly monastic conditions. true monasticism was predominantly puritan, and therefore unfavourable to free development in any direction but that of mystic contemplation; if the spirit of st. bernard had lived among the cistercians, the glories of tintern and rievaulx would have been impossible; and even our cathedrals and parish churches owed more of their beauties to laymen than to clerics. so also with our universities, which rose on the ruins of monastic learning; and in which, despite the fresh impetus received from the friars, the lay spirit still grew rapidly under the shelter of the church. in the th century, when oxford could show such a roll of philosophers that "not all the other nations and universities of europe between them could muster such a list," a growing proportion of these were not cloistered, but secular clergy. at no earlier time could these latter have shown three such oxford doctors as bradwardine, richard of armagh, and wycliffe. the general chapter of the benedictines strove repeatedly, but in vain, to compel a reasonable proportion of monks to study at oxford or cambridge.[ ] before the end of edward iii.'s reign, the english universities had become far more truly national than at any previous time; their training and aims were less definitely ecclesiastical, and their culture overflowed to laymen like chaucer and gower.[ ] moreover, the inns of court had become practically lay universities of law: and, quite apart from wycliffism, there was a rapid growth not only of the non-clerical but even of anti-clerical spirit. blow after blow was struck at papal privileges by successive parliaments in which the representatives of the lower clergy no longer sat. the pope's demand for arrears of john's tribute from england was rejected so emphatically that it was never pressed again; parliament repudiated papal claims of presentation to vacant benefices, and forbade, under the severest penalties, all unlicensed appeals to rome from english courts. it is true that our kings constantly gave way on these two last points, but only because it was easier to share the spoils by connivance with the popes; and these statutes mark none the less an epoch in english history. in , again, edward iii. assented to a petition from parliament which pleaded "inasmuch as the government of the realm has long been in the hands of the men of holy church, who in no case can be brought to account for their acts, whereby great mischief has happened in times past and may happen in times to come, may it therefore please the king that laymen of his own realm be elected to replace them, and that none but laymen henceforth be chancellor, treasurer, barons of the exchequer, clerk of privy seal, or other great officers of the realm." already the partial sequestration of the alien priories by the three edwards, and the total suppression and spoliation of the templars in , had accustomed men's minds to schemes of wholesale disendowment which were advocated as earnestly by an anti-lollard like langland[ ] as by wycliffe himself; and indeed this writer, the most religious among the three principal poets of that age, was also the most anticlerical. in edward iii.'s reign the reformation was already definitely in sight. in short, chaucer's lot was cast in an epoch-making age. then began our definite claim to the lordship of the sea; sluys, our first great maritime victory, the trafalgar of the middle ages, was won in the same year in which the poet was probably born; six years later we captured calais, our first colony; and it was noted even in those days that the englishman prospered still more abroad than at home. never before or since have english armies been so frequently and so uniformly victorious as during the first thirty years of chaucer's life; seldom have our commerce and our liberties developed more rapidly; and if the disasters which he saw were no less strange, these also helped to ripen his many-sided genius. the great pestilence of , more terrible than any other recorded in history; the first pitched battle between labour and capital in ; the first formal deposition of an english king in , to be repeated still more solemnly in ; all these must have affected the poet almost as deeply as they affected the state, notwithstanding the persistency with which he generally looks upon the brighter side. professor raleigh has wittily applied to him the confession of dr. johnson's friend, "i have tried in my time to be a philosopher; but, i don't know how, cheerfulness was always breaking in." it is difficult, however, not to surmise a great deal of more or less unwilling philosophy beneath chaucer's delightful flow of good-humour. his subtle ironies may tell as plain a tale as other men's open complaints; and sometimes he hastens to laugh where we might suspect a rising lump in his throat. but the laugh is there, or at least the easy, good-natured smile. where gower sees an england more hopelessly given over to the devil than even in carlyle's most dyspeptic nightmares--where the robuster langland sees an impending religious armageddon, and the honest soul's pilgrimage from the city of destruction towards a new jerusalem rather hoped for than seen even by the eye of faith--there chaucer, with incurable optimism, sees chiefly a merry england to which the horrors of the hundred years' war and the black death and tyler's revolt are but a foil. like many others in the middle ages, he seems convinced of the peculiar instability of the english character. he knew that he was living--as all generations are more or less conscious of living--in an uncomfortable borderland between that which once was, but can be no longer, and that which shall be, but cannot yet come to pass; yet all these changes supplied the artist with that variety of colour and form which he needed; and the man seems to have gone through life in the tranquil conviction that this was a pleasant world, and his own land a particularly privileged spot. the england of chaucer is that of which one of his most noted predecessors wrote, "england is a strong land and a sturdy, and the plenteousest corner of the world, so rich a land that unneth it needeth help of any land, and every other land needeth help of england. england is full of mirth and of game, and men oft times able to mirth and game, free men of heart and with tongue, but the hand is more better and more free than the tongue."[ ] chapter ii boyhood and youth "jeunes amours, si vite épanouies, vous êtes l'aube et le matin du coeur. charmez l'enfant, extases inouïes et, quand le soir vient avec la douleur, charmez encor nos âmes éblouies, jeunes amours, si vite évanouies!" victor hugo the name _chaucer_ was in some cases a corruption of _chauffecire_, _i.e._ "chafewax," or clerk in the chancery, whose duty it was to help in the elaborate operation of sealing royal documents.[ ] but mr. v. b. redstone seems to have shown conclusively that the poet's ancestors were _chaussiers_, or makers of long hose, and that they combined this business with other more or less extensive mercantile operations, especially as vintners. the family, like others in the wine trade, may well have come originally from gascony; but in the th and th centuries it seems to have thriven mainly in london and east anglia, and recent research has definitely traced the poet's immediate ancestry to ipswich.[ ] his grandfather, robert malyn, surnamed le chaucer, came from the suffolk village of dennington, and set up a tavern in ipswich. robert left a child named john, who was forcibly abducted one night in by geoffrey stace, apparently his uncle. when stace "stole and took away by force and arms--viz. swords, bows, and arrows--the said john," his object was to settle possible difficulties of succession to a certain estate by forcing the boy to marry joan de westhale; and he pleaded in his justification the custom of ipswich, by which "an heir became of full age at the end of his twelfth year, if he knew how to reckon and measure";[ ] but he was very heavily fined for his breach of the peace. we learn from the pleadings in this case that john chaucer was still unmarried in ; that he lived in london with his stepfather, namesake, and fellow-vintner, richard chaucer, and that his patrimony was very small. richard, dying twenty-one years later, left his house and his tavern to the church; but he had very likely given his stepson substantial help during his lifetime. in any case, john must have thriven rapidly, for we find him, in , at the age of twenty-six or thereabouts, among the distinguished company which followed edward iii. on his journey up the rhine to negociate an alliance with the emperor louis iv. the royal wardrobe books give many interesting details of this journey.[ ] queen philippa accompanied the king half-way across brabant, and then returned to antwerp, where she gave birth to lionel of clarence, the poet's first master. among the party were also several of the household of the earl of derby, father-in-law to that john of gaunt with whom geoffrey chaucer's fortunes were to be closely bound. the travellers had started from antwerp on sunday, august ; and on the following sunday a long day's journey brought them within sight of the colossal choir which, until sixty years ago, was almost all that existed of cologne cathedral. here the king gave liberally to the building fund; and here john chaucer probably stayed behind, since he and his fellow-citizens had come to promote closer commercial relations between the rhine cities and london. the king was towed up the rhine by sixty-two boatmen, sat in the diet at coblenz as vicar imperial, formed a seven years' alliance with the emperor, and sent on his five-year-old daughter joan to munich, where she waited many months vainly, but probably without impatience, for the young duke of austria, who was at present bespoken for her, but who finally turned elsewhere. meanwhile edward came back to bonn, where he had to pay the equivalent of about £ modern money for damage done in a quarrel between the citizens and those of his suite whom he had left behind--john chaucer probably included. the queen met the party again in brabant, and they returned to antwerp after a journey of exactly four weeks. we meet with several further allusions to john chaucer among the london city records. it was very likely he who, in july, , brought a valuable present from the bishop of salisbury to queen philippa at devizes, at the time when the ravages of the black death in london supply a very probable reason for his absence from town, so that he might well have had his wife and son with him on this occasion. certainly it was he who, with fourteen other principal vintners of the city, assented in to an ordinance providing that "no taverner should mix putrid and corrupt wine with wine that is good and pure, or should forbid that, when any company is drinking wine in his tavern, one of them, for himself and the rest of the company, shall enter the cellar where the tuns or pipes are then lying, and see that the measures or vessels into which the wine is poured are quite empty and clean within; and in like manner, from what tun or what pipe the wine is so drawn." this salutary ordinance was set at nought afterwards, as it had been before; but this and other records bear witness to john chaucer's standing in his profession. [illustration: london bridge, etc., in the th century (from vertue's engraving of aggas's map) the mouth of the walbrook may be seen between two houses just above the right-hand cow. thames street is the long street parallel to the river] geoffrey chaucer was probably born about the year , in his father's london dwelling, which is described in a legal document of the time as "a certain tenement situate in the parish of st. martin at vintry, between the tenement of william le gauger on the east and that which once belonged to john le mazelyner on the west: and it extendeth in length from the king's highway of thames street southwards, unto the water of walbrook northwards."[ ] the water of walbrook rose in the northern heights of hampstead and highbury, spread with others into the swamp of moorfields, divided the city roughly into two halves, and discharged its sluggish waters into the thames about where cannon street station now stands. similar streams, or "fleets," creeping between overhanging houses, are still frequent enough in little continental towns, and survive here and there even in england.[ ] stow, writing in queen elizabeth's reign, describes how the lower part of walbrook was bricked over in , leaving it still "a fair brook of sweet water" in its upper course; and he takes pains to assure us that it was not really called after galus, "a roman captain slain by asclepiodatus, and thrown therein, as some have fabled." in chaucer's time it ran openly through the wall between moorgate and bishopsgate, washed st. margaret's, lothbury, and ran under the kitchen of grocer's hall, and again under st. mildred's church; "from thence through bucklersbury, by one great house built of stone and timber called the old barge, because barges out of the river of thames were rowed so far into this brook, on the back side of the houses in walbrook street." in this last statement, however, stow himself had probably built too rashly upon a mere name; for no barges can have come any distance up the stream for centuries before its final bricking up. the mass of miscellaneous documents preserved at the guildhall, from which so much can be done to reconstitute medieval london, give us a most unflattering picture of the walbrook. from to we find it periodically "stopped up by divers filth and dung thrown therein by persons who have houses along the said course, to the great nuisance and damage of all the city." the "king's highway of thames street," though one of the chief arteries of the city, cannot have been very spacious in these days, when even cheapside was only just wide enough to allow two chariots to pass each other; and when chaucer became his own master he doubtless did well to live in hired houses over the gate of aldgate or in the abbey garden of westminster, and sell the paternal dwelling to a fellow-citizen who was presumably of tougher fibre than himself. yet, in spite of walbrook and those riverside lanes which dr. creighton surmises to have been the least sanitary spots of medieval london, the vintry was far from being one of the worst quarters of the town. on the contrary, it was rather select, as befitted the "merchant vintners of gascoyne," many of whom were mayors of the city; and stow's survey records many conspicuous buildings in this ward. first, the headquarters of the wine trade, "a large house built of stone and timber, with vaults for the storage of wines, and is called the vintry. there dwelt john gisers, vintner, mayor of london and constable of the town." here also "henry picard, vintner (mayor, ), in the year , did in one day sumptuously feast edward iii., king of england, john, king of france, david, king of scots, the king of cyprus (then all in england), edward, prince of wales, with many other noblemen, and after kept his hall for all comers that were willing to play at dice and hazard. the lady margaret, his wife, kept her chamber to the same effect." picard, as mr. rye points out, was one of john chaucer's fellow-vintners on edward iii.'s rhine journey in .[ ] then there were the vintner's hall and almshouses, which were built in chaucer's lifetime; the three guild halls of the cutlers, plumbers, and glaziers; the town mansions of the earls of worcester and ormond, and the great house of the ypres family, at which john of gaunt was dining in when a knight burst in with news that london was up in arms against him, "and unless he took great heed, that day would be his last. with which words the duke leapt so hastily from his oysters that he hurt both his legs against the form. wine was offered, but he could not drink for haste, and so fled with his fellow henry percy out at a back gate, and entering the thames, never stayed rowing until they came to a house near the manor of kennington, where at that time the princess [of wales] lay with richard the young prince, before whom he made his complaint." [illustration: medieval cock-fighting, actual and metaphorical (from strutt's "sports and pastimes")] of chaucer's childhood we have no direct record. no doubt he played with other boys at forbidden games of ball in the narrow streets, to the serious risk of other people's windows or limbs; no doubt he brought his cock to fight in school, under magisterial supervision, on shrove tuesday, and played in the fields outside the walls at the still rougher game of football, or at "leaping, dancing, shooting, wrestling, and casting the stone." in winter, when the great swamp of moorfields was frozen, he would be sure to flock out with the rest to "play upon the ice; some, striding as wide as they may, do slide swiftly; others make themselves seats of ice, as great as millstones; one sits down, many hand in hand to draw him, and one slipping on a sudden, all fall together; some tie bones to their feet and under their heels, and shoving themselves by a little piked staff, do slide as swiftly as a bird flieth in the air, or an arrow out of a cross-bow. sometime two run together with poles, and hitting one the other, either one or both do fall, not without hurt; some break their arms, some their legs, but youth desirous of glory in this sort exerciseth itself against the time of war."[ ] in spring he would watch the orchards of southwark put on their fresh leaves and blossoms, and walk abroad with his father in the evening to the pleasant little village of holborn; but he had a perennial source of amusement nearer home than this. nearly all the old wall along the thames had already been broken down, as the city had grown in population and security, while more ships came daily to unload their cargoes at the wharves. here and there stood mighty survivals of the old riverside fortifications: montfitchet's tower flanking the walls up-stream and the tower of london down-stream; and between them, close by chaucer's own home, the "tower royal," in which the queen dowager found safety during wat tyler's revolt. but the thames itself was now bordered by an almost continuous line of open quays, among the busiest of which were those of vintry ward, "where the merchants of bordeaux craned their wines out of lighters and other vessels," and finally built their vaulted warehouses so thickly as to crowd out the cooks' shops; "for fitzstephen, in the reign of henry ii., writeth, that upon the river's side, between the wine in ships and the wine to be sold in taverns, was a common cookery or cooks' row." here, then, chaucer would loiter to study the natural history of the english shipman, full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard. here he would see not only native craft from "far by west," but broad-sailed vessels from every country of europe, with cargoes as various as their nationalities. not a stone's throw from his father's house stood the great fortified hall and wharf of the hanse merchants, the easterlings who gave their name to our standard coinage, and whose london premises remained the property of lübeck, hamburg, and bremen until .[ ] chief among the easterlings at this time were the cologne merchants, with whom john chaucer had specially close relations; so that the little geoffrey must often have trotted in with his father to see the vines and fruit-trees with which these thrifty germans had laid out a plot of make-believe rhineland beside far-off thames shore. often must he have wondered at the half-monastic, half-military discipline which these knights of commerce kept inside their high stone walls, and sat down to nibble at his share of "a dutch bun and a keg of sturgeon," or dipped his childish beak in the paternal flagon of rhenish. meanwhile he went to school, since his writings show a very considerable amount of learning for a layman of his time. french he would pick up easily enough among this colony of "merchant vintners of gascoyne"; and for latin there were at least three grammar schools attached to different churches in london, of which st. paul's lay nearest to chaucer's home. but he probably began first with one of the many clerks in lower orders, who, all through the middle ages, eked out their scanty income by teaching boys and girls to read; and here we may remember what a contemporary man of letters tells us of his own childhood in a great merchant city. "when they put me to school," writes froissart, "there were little girls who were young in my days, and i, who was a little boy, would serve them with pins, or with an apple or a pear, or a plain glass ring; and in truth methought it great prowess to win their grace ... and then would i say to myself, 'when will the hour strike for me, that i shall be able to love in earnest?'... when i was grown a little wiser, it behoved me to be more obedient; for they made me learn latin, and if i varied in repeating my lessons, they gave me the rod.... i could not be at rest; i was beaten, and i beat in turn; then was i in such disarray that ofttimes i came home with torn clothes, when i was chidden and beaten again; but all their pains were utterly lost, for i took no heed thereof. when i saw my comrades pass down the street in front, i soon found an excuse to go and tumble with them again."[ ] is not childhood essentially the same in all countries and in all ages? the first certain glimpse we get of the future poet is at the age of seventeen or eighteen. a manuscript of the british museum containing poems by chaucer's contemporaries, lydgate and hoccleve, needed rebinding; and the old binding was found, as often, to have been strengthened with two sheets of parchment pasted inside the covers. these sheets, religiously preserved, in accordance with the traditions of the museum, were found to contain household accounts of the countess of ulster, wife to that prince lionel who had been born so near to the time of john chaucer's continental journey, and who was therefore two or three years older than the poet. among the items were found records of clothes given to different members of the household for easter, ; and low down on the list comes geoffrey chaucer, who received a short cloak, a pair of tight breeches in red and black, and shoes. in these red-and-black hosen the poet comes for the first time into full light on the stage of history. two other trifling payments to him are recorded later on; but the chief interest of the remaining accounts lies in the light they throw on the countess's movements. we see that she travelled much and was present at several great court festivities; and we have every right to assume that chaucer in her train had an equally varied experience. "we may catch glimpses of chaucer in london, at windsor, at the feast of st. george, held there with great pomp in connection with the newly founded order of the garter, again in london, then at woodstock, at the celebration of the feast at pentecost, at doncaster, at hatfield in yorkshire, where he spends christmas, again at windsor, in anglesey (august, ), at liverpool, at the funeral of queen isabella at the grey friars church, london (november th, ), at reading, again in london, visiting the lions in the tower."[ ] lionel himself, the romance of whose too brief life was said to have begun even before his birth,[ ] was the tallest and handsomest of all the king's sons. as the chronicler hardyng says-- "in all the world was then no prince hym like, of his stature and of all semelynesse above all men within his hole kyngrike by the shulders he might be seen doutlesse, [and] as a mayde in halle of gentilnesse." his second marriage and tragic death, not without suspicion of poison, may be found written in froissart under the year ; but as yet there was no shadow over his life, and in there can have been few gayer courts for a young poet than this, to which there came, at the end of the year, among other great folk, the great prince john of gaunt, who was afterwards to be chaucer's and wycliffe's best patron. for all john chaucer's favour with the king, the vintner's son could never have found a place in this great society without brilliant qualities of his own. we must think of him like his own squire--singing, fluting, and dancing, fresh as the month of may; already a poet, and warbling his love-songs like the nightingale while staider folk snored in their beds. his earliest poems refer to an unrequited passion, not so much natural as positively inevitable under those conditions. within the narrow compass of a medieval castle, daily intercourse was proportionately closer, as differences of rank were more indelible than they are nowadays; and in a society where neither could seriously dream of marriage, kate the queen might listen all the more complacently to the page's love-carol as he crumbled the hounds their messes. the desire of the moth for the star may be sad enough, but it is far worse when the star is a close and tangible flame. the tale of petit jean de saintré and the book of the knight of la tour-landry afford the best possible commentary on chaucer's court life. heavily as we may discount the autobiographical touches in his early poems, there is still quite enough to show that, from his twenty-first year at least, he spent many years of love-longing and unrest, and that (as in shakespeare's case) differences of rank added to his despair. it may well be that the references are to more than one lady; for there is no reason to suppose that chaucer's affections were less mercurial than those of burns or heine, whose hearts were often enough in two or three places at once. but we have no reason to doubt him when he assures us, in , that he has lost his sleep and his cheerfulness-- i hold it to be a sickness that i have suffered this eight year, and yet my boote is never the nere; for there is physician but one that may me heal; but that is done. her name, he says about the same time, is bounty, beauty, and pleasance; but her surname is fair-ruthless. again, he tells us how he ran to pity with his complaints of love's tyranny; but, alas! i found her dead, and buried in an heart.... and no wight wot that she is dead but i. the cruel fair stands high above him, a lady of royal excellence, humble indeed of heart, yet he scarce dares to call himself her servant-- have mercy on me, thou serenest queen, that you have sought so tenderly and yore, let some stream of your light on me be seen, that love and dread you ever longer the more; for, soothly for to say, i bear the sore, and though i be not cunning for to plain, for goddës love, have mercy on my pain! but all is vain, for in the end "ye recke not whether i float or sink." like the contemporary poets of piers plowman, chaucer discovered soon enough that the high road to wisdom lies through "suffer-both-well-and-woe;" and that, before we can possess our souls, we must "see much and suffer more."[ ] there is more than mere graceful irony in the beautiful lines with which, a few years later, he begins his "troilus and criseyde." he is (he says) the bondservant of love, one whose own woes help him to comfort others' pain, or again, to enlist the sympathy of fortune's favourite-- but ye lovéres, that bathen in gladness, if any drop of pity in you be, remembreth you on passéd heaviness that ye have felt, and on th' adversitie of other folk, and thinketh how that ye have felt that lovë durstë you displease, or ye have won him with too great an ease. and prayeth for them that be in the case of troilus, as ye may after hear, that love them bring in heaven to solace; and eke for me prayeth to god so dear.... and biddeth eke for them that be despaired in love, that never will recovered be.... and biddeth eke for them that be at ease, that god them grant aye good perséverance, and send them might their ladies so to please that it to love be worship and pleasance. for so hope i my soulë best t' advance, to pray for them that lovë's servants be, and write their woe, and live in charitie. chapter iii the king's squire for i, that god of lovë's servants serve, dare not to love for mine unlikeliness prayen for speed, though i should therefore sterve, so far am i from this help in darkness! "troilus and criseyde," i., in chaucer's life, as in the "seven ages of man," the soldier follows hard upon the lover; he is scarcely out of his 'teens before we find him riding to the great war, "in hope to stonden in his lady grace." he fought in that strange campaign of - , which began with such magnificent preparations, but ended so ineffectually. edward marched across france from calais to reims with a splendid army and an unheard-of baggage train; but the towns closed their gates, the french armies hovered out of his reach, and the weather was such that horses and men died like flies. "the xiii. day of aprill [ ] king edward with his oost lay before the citee off parys; the which was a ffoule derke day of myste, and off haylle, and so bytter colde, that syttyng on horse bak men dyed. wherefore, unto this day yt ys called blak monday, and wolle be longe tyme here affter."[ ] edward felt that the stars fought against him, and was glad to make a less advantageous peace than he might have had before this wasteful raid. chaucer's friend and brother-poet, eustache deschamps, recalls how the english took up their quarters in the villages and convents that crown the heights round reims, and watched forty days for a favourable opportunity of attack. froissart also tells us how edward feared to assault so strong a city, and only blockaded it for seven weeks, until "it began to irk him, and his men found nought more to forage, and began to lose their horses, and were at great disease for lack of victuals." it was probably on one of these foraging parties that chaucer was cut off with other stragglers by the french skirmishers; and the king paid £ towards his ransom.[ ] the items in the same account range from £ paid towards the ransom of richard stury (a distinguished soldier who was afterwards a fellow-ambassador of chaucer's), to £ _s._ _d._ "in compensation for the lord andrew lutterell's dead horse," and £ towards an archer's ransom. john chaucer died in , and his thrifty widow hastened to marry bartholomew attechapel; "the funeral bakemeats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables."[ ] geoffrey appears to have inherited little property from either of them; but it must be remembered that economies were difficult in the middle ages, so that men lived far more nearly up to their incomes than in modern times; and, again, that a considerable proportion of a citizen's legacies often went to the church. the healthy english and american practice of giving a boy a good start and then leaving him to shift for himself was therefore even more common in the th century than now. this is essentially the state of things which we find described with amazement, and doubtless with a good deal of exaggeration, in the "italian relation of england" of a century later. the english tradesmen (says the author) show so little affection towards their children that "after having kept them at home till they arrive at the age of seven or nine years at the utmost, they put them out, both males and females, to hard service in the houses of other people, binding them generally for another seven or nine years." thus the children look more to their masters than to their natural parents, and, "having no hope of their paternal inheritance," set up on their own account and marry away from home.[ ] from this source (proceeds the italian) springs that greed of gain and that omnipotence of money, even in the moral sphere, which are so characteristic of england. john chaucer may have left little property to his son, but he had given him an excellent education, and put him in the way of making his own fortune; for in we find him a yeoman of the king's chamber, and endowed with a life-pension of twenty marks "of our special grace, and for the good services which our beloved yeoman geoffrey chaucer hath rendered us and shall render us for the future." the phrase makes it probable that he had already been some little time in the king's service--very likely as early as the unlucky campaign in which edward had helped towards his ransom--and other indications make it almost certain that he was by this time a married man. nine years before this, side by side with chaucer in the countess of ulster's household accounts, we find among the ladies one philippa _pan'_, with a mark of abbreviation, which probably stands for _panetaria_, or mistress of the pantry. just as the countess bought chaucer's red-and-black hosen, so she paid "for the making of philippa's trimmings," "for the fashioning of one tunic for philippa,"[ ] "for the making of a corset for philippa and for the fur-work," "for xlviii great buttons of ... [unfortunate gap in the ms.] ... bought in london by the aforesaid john massingham for buttoning the aforesaid philippa's trimmings"; and in each case her steward records the payment "for drink given to the aforesaid workmen according to the custom of london." eight years after this ( ) the queen granted a life-pension to her "damoiselle of the chamber," philippa chaucer. six years later, again, philippa chaucer is in attendance upon john of gaunt's wife; and in another two years we find her definitely spoken of as the wife of geoffrey chaucer, through whose hands her pension is paid on this occasion, and sometimes in later years. on the face of these documents the obvious conclusion would seem to be that the lady, who was certainly _philippa chaucer_ in , and equally certainly _philippa, wife of geoffrey chaucer_, in , was already in our poet's wife. the only argument of apparent weight which has been urged against it is in fact of very little account when we consider actual medieval conditions. it has been pleaded that if chaucer complained in of an unrequited love which had tortured him for eight years and still overshadowed his life, he could not already be a married man. to urge this is to neglect one of the most characteristic features of good society in the middle ages. even léon gautier, the enthusiastic apologist of chivalry, admits sadly that the feudal marriage was too often a loveless compact, except so far as the pair might shake down together afterwards;[ ] and conjugal love plays a very secondary part in the great romances of chivalry. however apocryphal may be the alleged solemn verdict of a court of love that husband and wife had no right to be in love with each other, the sentence was at least recognized as _ben trovato_; and nobody who has closely studied medieval society, either in romance or in chronicle, would suppose that chaucer blushed to feel a hopeless passion for another, or to write openly of it while he had a wife of his own. dante's beatrice, and probably petrarch's laura, were married women; and, however strongly we may be inclined to urge the exceptional and ethereal nature of these two cases, nothing of the kind can be pleaded for boccaccio's fiammetta and froissart's anonymous lady-love. chaucer, therefore, might well have followed the examples of the four greatest writers of his century. moreover, in this case we have evidence that he and philippa not only began, but continued and ended with at least a homoeopathic dose of that "little aversion" which mrs. malaprop so strongly recommended in matrimony. his allusions to wedded life are predominantly disrespectful, or at best mockingly ironical; and though his own marriage may well have steadied him in some ways--prof. skeat points out that his least moral tales were all written after philippa's death in --yet the evidence is against his having found in it such companionship as might have chained his too errant fancy. the lives of burne-jones and morris throw unexpected sidelights on that of the master whom they loved so well; and neither of them seems fully to have realized how much his own development owed to modern things for which seventeen generations of men have struggled and suffered since chaucer's time. no artist of the middle ages--or, indeed, of any but quite recent times--could have earned by his genius a passport into society for wife and family as well as himself; nor could anything but a miracle have unbarred for chaucer that paradise of splendid work, pure domestic felicity, and social success which attracts us so much in the life of burne-jones.[ ] his wife was probably rather his social superior, and both would have had in any case a certain status as attendants at court; but that was in itself an unhealthy life, and so far as chaucer's poetry raised him above his fellow yeomen or fellow squires, so far that special favour would tend to separate him from his wife. a courtly poet's married life could scarcely be happy in an age compounded of such social licence and such galling restrictions: an age when a man might recite the miller's and reve's tales in mixed company, yet a girl was expected not to speak till she was addressed, to fold her hands when she sat down, to keep her eyes fixed on the ground as she walked, to assume that all talk of love meant illicit love, and to avoid even the most natural familiarities on pain of scandal.[ ] we may very easily exaggerate the want of harmony in the chaucer household; but everything tends to assure us that his was not altogether an ideal marriage. when, therefore, he tells us he has long been the servant of love, and that he is the very clerk of love, we need not suppose any reference here to the lady who had been his wife certainly for some years, and perhaps for nearly twenty. prof. hales, however, seems to go a good deal too far in assuming that philippa was in attendance on constance, duchess of lancaster, while her husband lived snugly in bachelor apartments over aldgate.[ ] but who, it may be asked, was this philippa of the pantry before she became philippa chaucer? here again the indications, though tantalizingly slight, all point towards some connection with john of gaunt, chaucer's great patron. she was probably either a swynford or a roet, _i.e._ sister-in-law or own sister to katherine roet, who married sir thomas swynford, and who became in after life first mistress and finally wife to john of gaunt. from this marriage were descended the great beaufort family, of which the most powerful member, the cardinal minister of henry vi., speaks in one of his letters of his _cousin_, thomas chaucer.[ ] this again is complicated by the doubt which has been thrown on a thomas chaucer's sonship to geoffrey, in spite of the definite assertion by the former's contemporary, gascoigne, chancellor of oxford university. [illustration: westminster hall (the great hall of the king's palace at westminster)] meanwhile, however, we are certain that chaucer was in a yeoman of edward iii.'s chamber, and that he was promoted five years later to be a squire in the royal household. the still existing household ordinances of edward ii. on one side, and edward iv. on the other, agree so closely in their description of the duties of these two offices, that we may infer pretty exactly what they were in chaucer's time. the earlier ordinances prescribe that the yeomen "shall serve in the chamber, making beds, holding and carrying torches, and divers other things which [the king] and the chamberlain shall command them. these [yeomen] shall eat in the chamber before the king. and each of them, be he well or ill, shall have for livery one darre[ ] of bread, one gallon of beer, a _messe de gros_[ ] from the kitchen, and yearly a robe in cloth or a mark in money; and for shoes _s._ _d._, at two seasons in the year.[ ] and if any of them be sent out of the court in the king's business, by his commandment, he shall have _d._ a day for his expenses." the later ordinances add to these duties "to attend the chamber, to watch the king by course, to go messages, etc." the yeomen were bedded two by two, apparently on the floor of the great hall, so that visitors to westminster hall may well happen to tread on the spot where chaucer nightly lay down to sleep. when he became a squire, he might either have found himself still on duty in the king's chamber, or else an "esquire for the king's mouth," to taste the food for fear of poison, to carve for the king, and to serve his wine on bended knee. he still shared a bed with some fellow squire; but they now shared a servant also and a private room, to which each might bring at night his gallon or half gallon of ale; "and for winter season, each of them two paris candles, one faggot, or else a half of tallwood." besides his mess of great meat, he might now take a mess of roast also;[ ] his wages were raised to - / _d._ per day, and he received yearly "two robes of cloth, or _s._ in money." moreover, as the household book of edward iv. adds, "these esquires of household of old be accustomed, winter and summer, in afternoons and in evenings to draw to lords chambers within court, there to keep honest company after their cunning, in talking of chronicles of kings, and of other policies, or in piping or harping, singing, or other acts martial, to help to occupy the court, and accompany strangers till the time require of departing." the same compiler looks back to edward iii.'s time as the crown and glory of english court life; and indeed that king lived on a higher scale (as things went in those days) than any other medieval english king except his inglorious grandson, richard ii. king john of france might indeed marvel to find himself among a nation of shopkeepers, and laugh at the thrift and order which underlay even his royal cousin's extravagances.[ ] but john's son, charles the wise, was destined to earn that surname by nothing more than by his imitation of english business methods in peace and war; and meanwhile the longest laugh was with edward, whose court swarmed with french prisoners and hostages. among the enforced guests were king john himself, four royal dukes, the flower of the nobility, and thirty-six substantial citizens sent over by the great towns as pledges for the enormous war indemnity, which was in fact never fully paid. all these were probably still at court when chaucer first joined it, and few poets have ever feasted their youthful eyes on more splendid sights than this. palaces and castles were filled to overflowing with the spoils of france; and the prisoners themselves vied with their captors in knightly sports and knightly magnificence. one of the royal princes had sixteen servants with him in his captivity; all moved freely about the country on parole, hawking and hunting, dancing and flouting, rather like guests than prisoners. indeed, as mme. darmesteter truly remarks, there was a natural freemasonry between the french nobility and the french-speaking courtiers of england; and froissart draws a vivid contrast between our manners and those of the germans in this respect. "for english and gascons are of such condition that they put a knight or a squire courteously to ransom; but the custom of the germans, and their courtesy [to their prisoners] is of no such sort hitherto--i know not how they will do henceforth--for hitherto they have had neither pity nor mercy on christian gentlemen who fall into their hands as prisoners, but lay on them ransoms to the full of their estate and even beyond, and put them in chains, in irons, and in close prison like thieves and murderers; and all to extort the greater ransom."[ ] the french lords added rather to the gaiety of a court which was already perhaps the gayest in europe; a society all the merrier because it was spending money that had been so quickly won; and because, in those days of shifting fortune, the shadow of change might already be foreboded on the horizon. let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we may be captives in our turn. few of the great leaders on either side escaped without paying ransom at least once in their lives; and the devil-may-care of the camp had its direct influence on court manners. the extravagant and comparatively inartistic fashions which, at the end of the th century, displaced one of the simplest and most beautiful models of dress which have ever reigned, were invented, as a contemporary assures us, by "the unthrifty women that be evil of their body, and chamberers to englishmen and other men of war that dwellen with them as their lemans; for they were the first that brought up this estate that ye use of great purfles and slit coats.... and as to my wife, she shall not; but the princesses and ladies of england have taken up the said state and guise, and they may well hold it if them list."[ ] towards the end of chaucer's life, when richard ii. had increased his personal expenses in direct proportion to his ill-success in war and politics, the english court reached its highest pitch of extravagance. the chronicler hardyng writes-- "truly i herd _robert ireliffe_ say, _clerke of the grene cloth_, that to the household came every daye, for moost partie alwaye, ten thousand folke, by his messes tould, that followed the hous, aye, as thei would; and in the kechin three hundred servitours, and in eche office many occupiours. "and ladies faire with their gentilwomen, chamberers also and lavenders, three hundred of them were occupied then: ther was greate pride among the officers, and of al menne far passyng their compeers, of riche araye, and muche more costious than was before or sith, and more precious." and he adds a description of court morals which may well suggest further reflections on chaucer's married life.[ ] [illustration: a travelling carriage (from the louterell psalter)] but the court was all that the poet could desire as a school of worldly manners, of human passion and character, and of gorgeous pageantry. the king travelled much with his household; a grievous burden indeed to the poor country folk on whom his purveyors preyed, but to the world in general a glorious sight. he took with him a multitude of officers already suppressed as superfluous in the days of edward iv., "as well sergeants of arms and messagers many, with the twenty-four archers before the king, shooting when he rode by the country, called _gard corpes le roy_. and therefore the king journied not passing ten or twelve miles a day." ruskin traces much of his store of observation to the leisurely journeys round england with his father in mr. telford's chaise; and the young chaucer must have gathered from these royal progresses a rich harvest of impressions for future use. chapter iv the ambassador "adieu, mol lit, adieu, piteux regards; adieu, pain frais que l'on soulait trouver; il me convient porter honneur aux lards; il convient ail et biscuit avaler, et chevaucher un périlleux cheval." eustache deschamps although we have nothing important dating from before his thirtieth year, we know from chaucer's own words that he wrote many "balades, roundels, and virelays" which are now lost; or, as he puts it in his last rueful retractation, "many a song and many a lecherous lay." these were no doubt fugitive pieces, often written for different friends or patrons, and put abroad in their names. besides these, we know that he translated certain religious works, including the famous "misery of human life" of pope innocent the third. piety and profanity, prayers and curses, jostle each other in chaucer's early life as in the society round him: we may think of his own shipman, thoroughly orthodox after his simple fashion, but silencing the too puritanical parson with a rattling oath at close range, and proceeding to "clynken so mery a belle" that we feel a sort of treachery in pausing to wonder how such a festive tale could be brought forth for a company of pilgrims as a pill to purge heterodoxy! the first of his early poems which we can date with any certainty is also the best worth dating. this is the "dethe of blaunche the duchesse," in memory of john of gaunt's first wife, who died in september, . the poem is obviously immature and unequal, but full of delightful passages, fresh to us even where the critics trace them to some obvious french source. such, for instance, is the beginning of his dream, where he describes the inevitable may morning--inevitable in medieval verse, but here and there, when he or his fellow-poets are in their happiest mood, as fresh again as nature herself, who is never tired of harping on the same old themes of sunshine and blue sky and fresh air. he wakes at dawn to hear the birds singing their matins at his eaves; his bedroom walls are painted with scenes from the "romance of the rose," and broad sunlight streams through the storied glass upon his bed. he throws open the casement: "blue, bright, clear was the air, nor in all the welkin was one cloud." a bugle rings out; he hears the trampling of horse and hounds; the emperor octavian's hunt is afoot--or, in plainer prose, king edward the third's. the poet joins them; a puppy comes up fawning, starting away, fawning again, until it has led him apart from the rest. it came and crept to me as low right as it haddë me y-knowe, held down his head and joined his ears, and laid all smoothë down his hairs. i would have caught it, and anon it fled, and was from me gone; and i him followed, and it forth went down by a flowery greenë went [glade full thick of grass, full soft and sweet with flowerës fele, fair under feet. [many here he finds a young knight all in black, mourning by himself. a little unobtrusive sympathy unlocks the young man's heart. she was "my hap, my heal, and all my bliss;" "and goodë fairë white she hight." the first meeting had been as sudden as that of dante and beatrice: a medieval garden-party--"the fairest companye of ladies, that ever man with eye had seen together in one place," and one among them who "was like none of all the rout," but who outshone the rest as the sun outshines moon and stars-- for every hair upon her head, sooth to say, it was not red; nor neither yellow nor brown it was, me thoughte most like gold it was. her eyes shone with such simple enjoyment of life that "fools" were apt to read a special welcome in her glance, to their bitter disappointment in course of time. she disdained the "knakkes smale," the little coquettish tricks of certain other ladies, who send their lovers half round the world, and give them but cold cheer on their return. the rest of the personal description is more commonplace, and (however faithful to medieval precedent) a little too like some modern sportsman's enumeration of his horse's points. the course of true love did not run too smoothly here. on the knight's first proposal, "she saidë 'nay!' all utterly." but "another year," when she had learned to know him better, she took him to her mercy, and they lived full many a year in bliss, only broken now by her death. the poem, which had rather dragged at the beginning, here ends abruptly, as though chaucer had tired of it. he has no effectual comfort to offer in such a sorrow; the hunt breaks in upon their dialogue; king and courtiers ride off to a long white-walled castle on a hill, where a bell rings the hour of noon and wakes the poet from his dream. when we have reckoned up all chaucer's debts to his predecessors in this poem--and they are many--there is ample proof left of his own originality. moreover, we cannot too often remind ourselves that the idea of copyright, either legal or moral, is modern. in the scarcity of books which reigned before the days of printing, the poet who "conveyed" most might well be the greatest benefactor to mankind. the educated public, so far as such a body then existed, rather encouraged than reprobated the practice of borrowing; and the poet, like the modern schoolboy versifier, was applauded for his skill in weaving classical tags into his own work. chaucer differed from his predecessors, and most of his successors, less in the amount which he borrowed than in the extraordinary vitality and originality which he infused into the older work. if we had only these fragments of his early works, we should still understand how deschamps praises him as "king of worldly love in albion"; we should still feel something of that charm of language which earned the poet his popularity at court and his promotion to important offices. it is well known that medieval society had not developed the minute sub-divisions of labour which have often been pushed to excess in modern times. the architect was simply a master-mason; the barber was equally ready to try his hand on your beard or on a malignant tumour; the king might choose for his minister a frankly incapable personal favourite, or send out his most gorgeously accoutred knights on a reconnaissance which would have been infinitely better carried out by a trained scout. similarly, the poets of the th century were very frequently sent abroad as ambassadors; dante, petrarch, boccaccio had already set chaucer this example, which his friend eustache deschamps was soon to follow. the choice implied, no doubt, a subtle tribute to the power of rhetoric, under which category poetry was often classed. the rarity of book-learning did not indeed give the scholar a higher value in general society than he commands nowadays, or bring more grist to his mill; he and his horse were commonly lean enough, and his only worldly treasures were his score of books at his bed's head. but the medieval mind, which persistently invested lunatics with the highest prophetic qualities, seems to have had an equally touching faith in poetic clairvoyance at times when common sense was at fault, and to have called upon a dante or a chaucer just as, in similar emergencies, it called upon particular saints whose intercession was least invoked in everyday life. much, of course, is to be explained by the fact that formal and elaborate public speeches were as necessary as spectacular display on these embassies; but, even so, we may wonder that the ravennati ever entrusted an embassy to dante, who is recorded to have been so violent a political partisan that he was capable of throwing stones even at women in the excitement of discussion. chaucer, however, had neither the qualities nor the defects of such headlong fanaticism; and from the frequency with which he was employed we may infer that he showed real talents for diplomacy. his first employment of the kind was in , when, a year after he had taken part in a second french campaign, he was "abroad in the king's service" during the summer. whither he went is uncertain, probably to the netherlands or northern france, since his absence was brief. in and he regularly received his pension with his own hands (as the still extant household accounts of edward iii. show), until november of the latter year, when he "was joined in a commission with james pronam and john de mari, citizens of genoa, to treat with the duke, citizens, and merchants of genoa, for the purpose of choosing some port in england where the genoese might form a commercial establishment."[ ] this journey lasted about a year, and chaucer received for his expenses marks, or about £ modern value. the roll which records these payments mentions that chaucer's business had taken him to florence as well as genoa; and here, as so often happens in history, a stray word recorded in the driest of business documents opens out a vista of things in themselves most romantic. of all that makes the traveller's joy in modern italy, the greater part was already there for chaucer to see, with much more that he saw and that we never shall. the sky, the air, and the landscape were practically the same, except for denser forests, and, no doubt, fewer lemon and orange trees. the traveller, it is true, was less at leisure to observe some of these things, and less inclined to find god's hand in the mountains or the sea. chaucer is so far a man of his time as to show no delight in the sterner moods of nature; we find in his works none of that true love of mountain scenery which comes out in the "pearl" and in early scottish poetry; and when he has to speak of custance's sea-voyages, he expedites them as briefly and baldly as though they had been so many business journeys by rail. deschamps, and the anonymous english poet of fifty years later, show us how little cause a man had to love even the channel passage in the rough little boats of those days, "a perilous horse to ride," indeed; rude and bustling sea-folk, plentiful tributes to neptune, scant elbow room-- "bestow the boat, boatswain, anon, that our pilgrims may play thereon; for some are like to cough and groan ... this meanëwhile the pilgrims lie and have their bowlës fast them by and cry after hot malvoisie ... some laid their bookës on their knee, and read so long they might not see:-- 'alas! mine head will cleave in three!'"[ ] worse passages still were matters of common history; froissart tells us how hervé de léon "took the sea [at southampton] to the intent to arrive at harfleur; but a storm took him on the sea which endured fifteen days, and lost his horse, which were cast into the sea, and sir hervé of léon was so sore troubled that he had never health after." king john of france, a few years later, took eleven days to cross the channel,[ ] and edward iii. had one passage so painful that he was reduced to explain it by the arts of "necromancers and wizards." moreover, nearly all chaucer's embassies came during those evil years after our naval defeat of , when our fleets no longer held the channel, and the seas swarmed with french privateers. nor were the mountains less hated by the traveller, or less dangerous in reality, with their rude horse-tracks and ruder mountain-folk, half herdsmen, half brigands. first there were the alps to be crossed, and then, from genoa to florence, "the most desolate, the most solitary way that lies between lerici and turbia."[ ] but, after all these difficulties, italy showed herself as hospitable as the approaches had been inhospitable: "il fait bien bon demeurer au doux château de pavie."[ ] we must not forget these more material enjoyments, for they figure largely among the impressions of a still greater man, in whose intellectual life the journey to italy marks at least as definite an epoch; not the least delightful passages of goethe's _italienische reise_ are those which describe his delight in seeing the oranges grow, or the strange fish brought out of the sea. for goethe, the soul of italy was in its pagan antiquity; but chaucer found there a living art and living literature, the noblest in the then world. the great semicircle of houses standing upon projecting arches round the harbour of genoa, which survived to be drawn by ruskin in their decay, would at once strike a noble note of contrast to the familiar wooden dwellings built over thames shingle at home; everywhere he would find greater buildings and brighter colours than in our northern air. the pale ghosts of frescoes which we study so regretfully were then in their first freshness, with thousands more which have long since disappeared. wherever he went, the cities were already building, or had newly built, the finest of the gothic structures which adorn them still; and chaucer must have passed through pisa and florence like a new Æneas among the rising glories of carthage. a whole population of great artists vied with each other in every department of human skill-- "qualis apes aestate nova per florea rura exercet sub sole labor--" giotto and andrea pisano were not long dead; their pupils were carrying on the great traditions; and splendid schools of sculpture and painting flourished, especially in those districts through which our poet's business led him. still greater was the intellectual superiority of italy. to find an english layman even approaching in learning to dante, or a circle of english students comparable to that of petrarch and boccaccio, we must go forward nearly two centuries, to sir thomas more and the eve of the reformation. moreover, the stimulus of dante's literary personality was even greater than the example of his learning. on the one hand, he summed up much of what was greatest in the thought of the middle ages; on the other, he heralded modern freedom of thought by his intense individualism and the frankness with which he asserted his own personal convictions. more significant even than the startling freedom with which dante wielded the keys of heaven and hell is the fundamental independence of his whole scheme of thought. when he set the confessedly adulterous cunizza among the blessed, and cast down so many popes to hell, he was only following with unusual boldness a fairly common medieval precedent. but in taking as his chief guides through the mysteries of religion a pagan poet, a philosopher semi-pagan at the best, and a florentine lady whom he had loved on earth--in this choice, and in his corresponding independence of expression, he gave an impetus to free thought far beyond what he himself can have intended. virgil's parting speech at the end of the "purgatorio," "henceforward take thine own will for thy guide.... i make thee king and high priest over thyself," conveyed a licence of which others availed themselves more liberally than the man who first uttered it. dante does indeed work out the problem of life for himself, but he does so with the conclusions of st. bernard and hugh of st. victor, st. thomas aquinas and st. bonaventura, always before his eyes. others after him followed his liberty of thought without starting from the same initial attachment to the great theologians of the past; and, though petrarch and boccaccio lived and died as orthodox roman catholics, yet their appeal to the literature of antiquity had already begun the secular and even semi-pagan intellectual movement which goes by the name of the renaissance. in short, the italian intellect of the th century afforded a striking example of the law that an outburst of mysticism always provokes an equally marked phase of free thought; enthusiasm may give the first impulse, but cannot altogether control the direction of the movement when it has once begun. it will be seen later on that chaucer was no stranger to the religious difficulties of his age. the ferment of italian free thought seems (as professor ten brink has remarked) to have worked effectually upon a mind which "was going through an intense religious crisis."[ ] dante's mysticism may well have carried chaucer off his feet for a time; we probably owe to this, as well as to his regret for much that had been wasted in his youth, the religious poems which are among the earliest extant from his pen. "chaucer's a. b. c.," a rapturous hymn to the virgin, strikes, from its very first line, a note of fervour far beyond its french original; few utterances of medieval devotion approach more perilously near to mariolatry than this--"almighty and all-merciable queen"! another poem of the same period is the "life of st. cecilia," with its repentant prologue, its hymn to the virgin translated from dante, and its fervent prayer for help against temptation-- now help, thou meek and blissful fairë maid me flemëd wretch in this desert of gall; [banished think on the woman canaanee, that said that whelpës eaten some of the crumbës all that from their lordës table been y-fall; and though that i, unworthy son of eve be sinful, yet accept now my believe.... and of thy light my soul in prison light, that troubled is by the contagion of my body, and also by the weight of earthly lust, and false affection: o haven of refuge, o salvation of them that be in sorrow and in distress now help, for to my work i will me dress.[ ] but much as chaucer translated bodily from dante in different poems, and mighty as is the impulse which he owns to having received from him, the great florentine's style impressed him more deeply than his thought. in matter, chaucer is far more akin to petrarch and boccaccio, from whom he also borrowed even more freely. but in style he owes most to dante, as dante himself owes to virgil. we may clearly trace this influence in chaucer's later concentration and perfection of form; in the pains which he took to bend his verse to every mood, and in the skilful blending of comedy and tragedy which enabled chaucer so far to outdo petrarch and boccaccio in the tales which he borrowed from them. much of this was, no doubt, natural to him; but neither england nor france could fully have developed it. his two italian journeys made him a changed man, an artist in a sense in which the word can be used of no english poet before him, and of none after him until the th century brought english men of letters again into close communion with italian poetry. did chaucer make the personal acquaintance, on this first italian journey, of petrarch and boccaccio, who were beyond dispute the two greatest living men of letters in europe besides himself? his own words in the prologue of the "clerk's tale" would seem to testify to personal intercourse with the former; and most biographers have assumed that it is not only the fictitious clerk, but the real poet, who confesses to have learned the story of griselda straight from petrarch. the latter, as we know from his own letters, was in the height of his enthusiasm about the tale, which he had just translated into latin from the "decameron" during the very year of chaucer's visit; and m. jusserand justly points out that the english poet's fame was already great enough in france to give him a ready passport to a man so interested in every form of literature, and with such close french connections, as petrarch. the meeting has been strongly doubted, partly on the ground that whereas the clerk learned the tale from petrarch "at padua," the aged poet was in fact during chaucer's italian journey at arquà, a village sixteen miles off in the euganean hills. it has, however, been conclusively proved that the ravages of war had driven petrarch down from his village into the fortified town of padua, where he lived in security during by far the greater part, at any rate, of this year; so that this very indication of padua, which had been hastily assumed as a proof of chaucer's ignorance, does in fact show that he possessed such accurate and unexpected information of petrarch's whereabouts as might, of itself, have suggested a suspicion of personal intercourse.[ ] this is admirably illustrated by the story of chaucer's relations with the other great italian, boccaccio. since chaucer certainly went to florence, and probably left only a few weeks, or even a few days, before boccaccio's first lecture there on dante; since, again, he copies or translates from boccaccio even more than from petrarch, it has been naturally suggested that the two must have met. but here we find a curious difficulty. great as are chaucer's literary obligations to the author of the "decameron," he not only never mentions him by name, but, on those occasions where he quotes directly and professes to acknowledge his authority, he invariably gives some other name than boccaccio's.[ ] it is, of course, barely conceivable that the two men met and quarrelled, and that chaucer, while claiming the right of "conveying" from boccaccio as much as he pleased, not only deliberately avoided giving the devil his due, but still more deliberately set up other false names which he decked out with boccaccio's true feathers. but such a theory, which should surely be our last resort in any case, contradicts all that we know of chaucer's character. almost equally improbable is the suggestion that, without any grudge against boccaccio, chaucer simply found it convenient to hide the amount of his indebtedness to him. here again (quite apart from the assumed littleness for which we find no other evidence in chaucer) we see that in dante's and petrarch's cases he proclaims his debt with the most commendable frankness. the third theory, and on the whole the most probable, is that chaucer translated from italian books which, so far as he was concerned, were anonymous or pseudonymous. medieval manuscripts were quite commonly written without anything like the modern title-page; and, even when the author's name was recorded on the first page, the frequent loss of that sheet by use left the book nameless, and at the mercy of any possessor who chose to deck it with a title after his own fancy.[ ] therefore it is not impossible that chaucer, who trod the streets of boccaccio's florence, and saw the very trees on the slopes of fiesole under which the lovers of the "decameron" had sat, and missed by a few weeks at most the bodily presence of the poet, may have translated whole books of his without ever realizing their true authorship. in those days of difficult communication, no ignorance was impossible. in the king's ministers imagined that england contained , parishes, while in fact there were less than . chroniclers, otherwise well informed, assure us that the black death killed more people in towns like london and norwich than had ever lived in them. bishop grandisson of exeter, one of the most remarkable prelates of the th century, imagined ireland to be a more populous country than england. it is perfectly possible, therefore, that chaucer and boccaccio, who were in every way so close to each other during these twelve months of - , were yet fated to remain strangers to each other; and this lends all the more force to the fact that chaucer knew petrarch to have spent the year at padua, and not at his own home. it may be well to raise here the further question: had not chaucer already met petrarch on an earlier italian journey, which would relegate this of - to the second place? in , lionel of clarence was married for the second time to violante visconti of milan. petrarch was certainly an honoured guest at this wedding, and speght, writing in , quotes a report that chaucer was there too in attendance on his old master. this, however, was taken as disproved by the more recent assertion of nicholas that chaucer drew his pension in england "with his own hands" during all this time. here again, however, mr. bromby's researches have reopened the possibility of the old tradition.[ ] he ascertained, by a fresh examination of the original issue rolls, that the pension was indeed paid to geoffrey chaucer on may th, while the wedding party was on its way to milan, but the words _into his own hands_ are omitted from this particular entry. the omission may, of course, be merely accidental; but at least it destroys the alleged disproof, and leaves us free to take speght's assertion at its intrinsic worth. chaucer's own silence on the subject may have a very sufficient cause, the reason which he himself puts into the knight's mouth in protest against the monk's fondness for tragedies-- ... for little heaviness is right enough to many folk, i guess. i say for me it is a great dis-ease, where as men have been in great wealth and ease, to hearen of their sudden fall, alas! few weddings have been more tragic than that of chaucer's old master. the duke, tallest and handsomest of all the royal princes, set out with a splendid retinue, taking men and horses over sea with him. there were great feasts in paris and in savoy by the way; greater still at milan on the bridegroom's arrival. but three months after the wedding "my lord lionel of england departed this world at asti in piedmont.... and, for that the fashion of his death was somewhat strange, my lord edward despenser, his companion, who was there, made war on the duke of milan, and harried him more than once with his men; but in process of time my lord the count of savoy heard tidings thereof and brought them to one accord." this, and another notice equally brief, is all that we get even from the garrulous froissart about this splendid and tragic marriage, with its suspicion of italian poison, at which he himself was present.[ ] why should not chaucer have been equally reticent? indeed, we know that he was, for he never alludes to a tragedy which in any case must have touched him very nearly, just as he barely mentions two other far blacker chapters in his life--the black death, and wat tyler's revolt. it is still possible, therefore, to hope that he may have met petrarch not only at padua in - , but even earlier at the magnificent wedding feast of milan. chapter v the man of business "oh! that any muse should be set upon a high stool to cast up accounts and balance a ledger."--_times_ the italian journey of - was far from being chaucer's last embassy. in he was abroad on secret service with sir john burley; in february of next year he was associated on another secret mission with sir thomas percy, afterwards earl of worcester, and hotspur's partner at the battle of shrewsbury; so that our poet, if he had lived only three years longer, would have seen his old fellow-envoy's head grinning down from the spikes of london bridge side by side with "a quarter of sir harry percy."[ ] in april of the same year he was sent to montreuil with sir guichard d'angle and sir richard stury, for no less a matter than a treaty of peace with france. the french envoys proposed a marriage between their little princess marie, aged seven, and the future richard ii., only three years older; a subject upon which the english envoys seem to have received no authority to treat. so the embassy ended only in a very brief extension of the existing truce; the little princess died a few months afterwards, and chaucer lived to see the great feasts in london twenty-one years later, when richard took to second wife marie's niece isabella, then only in her eighth year. in january , our poet was again associated with sir guichard d'angle and two others on a mission to negotiate for richard's marriage with one of poor little marie's sisters. here also the discussions came to nothing; but already in may chaucer was sent with sir edward berkeley on a fresh embassy to italy. this time it was to treat "of certain matters touching the king's war" with the great english _condottiere_ sir john hawkwood, and with that tyrant of milan who was suspected of having poisoned prince lionel, and whose subsequent fate afforded matter for one of the monk's "tragedies" in the "canterbury tales"-- of milan greatë barnabo viscount, god of delight and scourge of lombardye. during this journey chaucer appointed for his agents in england the poet john gower and another friend, richard forrester, of whom we shall hear once more. he was home again early in february of the next year; and this, so far as we know, was the last of his diplomatic missions. it would take us too far afield to consider all the attendant circumstances of these later embassies, important as they are for showing the high estimate put on chaucer's business talents, and much as they must have contributed to form that many-sided genius which we find fully matured at last in the poet of the "canterbury tales." but they show us that he travelled in the best of company and saw many of the most remarkable european cities of his day; that he grappled, and watched others grapple, first with the astute old counsellors who surrounded charles the wise, and again with the english adventurer whose prowess was a household word throughout italy, and who had married an illegitimate sister of clarence's violante visconti, with a dowry of a million florins. these journeys, however, brought him no literary models comparable to those which he had already found: dante, petrarch, and boccaccio reigned supreme in his mind until the latest and ripest days of all, when he became no longer the mere translator and adapter (with however fresh a genius) of french and italian classics, but a classic himself, master of a style that could express all the accumulated observations of half a century--chaucer of the english fields and highways, chaucer of english men and women, and no other man. the analysis and criticism of the works which he produced in the years following the first italian journey belongs to literary history. it only concerns me here to sum up what the literary critics have long since pointed out; how full a field of ideas the poet found in these years of travel, how busily he sucked at every flower, and how rich a store he brought home for his countrymen. for a hundred and fifty years, chaucer was practically the only channel between rough, strong, unformed english thought and the greatest literature of the middle ages. more still, in him she possessed the poet whom (measuring not only by beauty of style but by width of range), we must put next to dante himself. he was to five generations of englishmen that which shakespeare has been to us ever since. it is delightful to take stock of these fruitful years of travel and observation, but more delightful still to follow the poet home and watch him at work in the dear busy london of his birth. from the time of his return from the first italian journey we find him in evident favour at court. on st. george's day, , he received the grant of a pitcher of wine daily for life, "to be received in the port of london from the hands of the king's butler." such grants were common enough; but they take us back in imagination to the still earlier times from which the tradition had come down. st. george's was a day of solemn feasting in the round tower of windsor; chaucer would naturally enough be there on his daily services. edward, the pharaoh at the birthday feast, lifted up his head from among his fellow-servants by a mark of special favour for services rendered during the past year. but the grant was already in those days more picturesque than convenient; we soon find chaucer drawing a periodical money-equivalent for the wine; and in the grant was commuted for a life-pension of about £ modern value. shortly after this grant of wine came a far greater stroke of fortune. chaucer was made comptroller of the customs and subsidies, with the obligation of regular attendance at his office in the port of london, and of writing the rolls with his own hand. those which still exist, however, are almost certainly copies. presently he received the grant of a life-pension from john of gaunt as well as from the king. his wife also had pensions from both, so that the regular income of the household amounted to some £ a year of modern money. to this must be added considerable windfalls in the shape of two lucrative wardships and a large share of a smuggled cargo of wool which chaucer had discovered and officially confiscated. yet with all this he seems to have lived beyond his means, and we find him forestalling his pension. in chaucer's financial prosperity reached its climax, for he received another comptrollership which he might exercise by deputy. two years later, he was permitted to appoint a deputy to his first comptrollership also; and in this same year, , he was elected to sit in parliament as knight of the shire for the county of kent. he had already, in , been appointed a justice of the peace for the same county, in company with sir simon burley, warden of the cinque ports, and other distinguished colleagues. indeed, only one untoward event mars the smooth prosperity of these years. in , cecilia chaumpaigne renounced by a formal deed, witnessed among others by three knights, all claims which she might have against our poet "_de raptu meo_." _raptus_ often means simply _abduction_, and it may well be that chaucer was simply concerned in just such an attempt upon cecilia as had been made upon his own father, who, as it will be remembered, had narrowly escaped being married by force to joan de westhale for the gratification of other people's private interests. this is rendered all the more probable by two other documents connected with the same matter which have been discovered by dr. sharpe.[ ] it is, however, possible that the _raptus_ was a more serious affair; and professor skeat has pointed out the coincidence that chaucer's "little son lowis" was just ten years old in . it is true that the poet would, by this interpretation, have been guilty of felony, in which case a mere deed of renunciation on cecilia's part could not legally have settled the matter; but the wide divergences between legal theory and practice in the middle ages renders this argument less conclusive than it might seem at first sight. it is certain, however, that abductions of heiresses from motives of cupidity were so frequent at this time as to be recognized among the crying evils of society. the parliament of - felt bound to pass a law exacting that both the abductor and the woman who consented to abduction should be deprived of all inheritance and dowry, which should pass on to the next of kin.[ ] but medieval laws, as has long ago been remarked, were rather pious aspirations than strict rules of conduct; and it is piquant to find our errant poet himself among the commissioners appointed to inquire into a case of _raptus_, just seven years after his own escapade.[ ] during the twelve years from to chaucer occupied those lodgings over the tower of aldgate which are still inseparably connected with his name. this was probably by far the happiest part of his career, and (with one exception presently to be noticed) the most productive from a literary point of view. here he studied with an assiduity which would have been impossible at court, and which must again have been far less possible in his later years of want and sordid shifts. here he translated boethius, of whose philosophical "consolations" he was so soon to stand in bitter need. here he wrote from french, latin, and italian materials that "troilus and cressida" which is in many ways the most remarkable of all his works. in he composed his "parliament of fowls" in honour of richard ii.'s marriage with anne of bohemia; then came the "house of fame" and the "legend of good women." these two poems, like most of chaucer's work, are unfinished, and unequal even as they stand. we cannot too often remind ourselves that he was no professional _litterateur_, but a courtier, diplomatist, and man of business whose genius impelled him to incessant study and composition under conditions which, in these days, would be considered very unfavourable in many respects. but his contemporaries were sufficiently familiar with unfinished works of literature. reading was then a process almost as fitful and irregular as writing; and in their gratitude for what he told them, few in those days would have been inclined to complain of all that chaucer "left half-told." so the poet freely indulged his genius during these aldgate days, turning and returning the leaves of his french and italian legendaries, and evoking such ghosts as he pleased to live again on earth. whom he would he set up, and whom he would he put down; and that is one secret of his freshness after all these centuries. this period of quiet and prosperity culminates, as has been said, in his election to the parliament of as a knight of the shire for kent. his contemporary, froissart, has left us a picture of a specially solemn parliament held in to declare war against france, "at the palace of westminster; and the great hall was all full of prelates, nobles, and counsellors from the cities and good towns of england. and there all men were set down on stools, that each might see the king more at his ease. and the said king was seated like a pontiff, in cloth of rouen, with a crown on his head and a royal sceptre in his hand. and two degrees lower sat prelate, earl, and baron; and yet below them were more than six hundred knights. and in the same order sat the men of the cinque ports, and the counsellors from the cities and good towns of the land. so when all were arrayed and seated in order, as was just, then silence was proclaimed, and up rose a clerk of england, licentiate of canon and civil law, and excellently provided of three tongues, that is to say of latin, french, and english; and he began to speak with great wisdom; for sir robert of artois was at his side, who had instructed him two or three days before in all that he should say." chaucer's parliament sat more probably in the great chapter house of westminster, and certainly passed off with less order and unanimity than froissart's of , though the main theme was still that of the french war, into which the nation had plunged so lightheartedly a generation earlier. in spite of crécy and poitiers and a dozen other victories in pitched battles, our ships had been destroyed off la rochelle in by the combined fleets of france and castile; since which time not only had our commerce and our southern seaport towns suffered terribly, but more than once there had been serious fears for the capital. in and london had been put into a state of defence;[ ] and now, in , it was known that the french were collecting enormous forces for invasion. the incapacity of their king and his advisers did indeed deliver us finally from this danger; but, when chaucer and his fellow-members assembled on october , "it had still seemed possible that any morning might see the french fleet off dover, or even at the mouth of the thames."[ ] the militia of the southern counties was still assembled to defend the coast, while twenty thousand from the midlands lay round london, ill-paid, starving, and beginning to prey on the country; for richard ii. had wasted his money on court pleasures or favourites. the commons refused to grant supplies until the king had dismissed his unpopular ministers; richard retired in a rage to eltham, and parliament refused to transact business until he should return. in this deadlock, the members deliberately sought up the records of the deposition of edward ii., and this implied threat was too significant for richard to hold out any longer. as a contemporary puts it, "the king would not come to parliament, but they sent for the statute whereby the second edward had been judged, and under pain of that statute compelled the king to attend."[ ] the houses then impeached and imprisoned suffolk, one of the two unpopular ministers, and put richard himself under tutelage to a council of reform. supplies having been voted, the king dismissed his parliament on november with a plain warning that he intended to repudiate his recent promises; and he spent the year in armed preparations. meanwhile, however, other _protégés_ of his had suffered besides the great men of whom all the chronicles tell us. the council of reform had exacted from richard a commission for a month "to receive and dispose of all crown revenues, to enter the royal castles and manors, to remove officials and set up others in their stead."[ ] sir harris nicolas shows from the rolls of this parliament that the commission was issued "for inquiring, among other alleged abuses, into the state of the subsidies and customs; and as the commissioners began their duties by examining the accounts of the officers employed in the collection of the revenue, the removal of any of those persons soon afterwards, may, with much probability, be attributed to that investigation." it is not necessary to suppose that chaucer had been specially negligent as a man of business, though it may have been so, and his warmest admirer would scarcely contend that what we know of the poet's character points to any special gifts of regularity or punctual order. we know that the men who now governed england made it their avowed object to remove all creatures of the king; and everything tends to show that chaucer had owed his offices to court favour. at this moment then, when richard's patronage was a grave disadvantage, and when chaucer's other great protector, john of gaunt, was abroad in spain, flying a wild-goose chase for the crown of castile--at such a moment it was almost inevitable that we should find him among the first victims; and already in december both his comptrollerships were in other men's hands. even in his best days he seems to have lived up to his income; and this sudden reverse would very naturally drive him to desperate shifts. it is not surprising, therefore, that we soon find him assigning his two pensions to one john scalby (may , ). but before this philippa chaucer had died. in she was at lincoln with her patron, john of gaunt, and a distinguished company; and there she was admitted into the cathedral fraternity, together with henry of derby, the future henry iv.[ ] at midsummer, , she received her quarter's pension as usual, but not at michaelmas; and thenceforward she disappears from the records. her death, of course, still further reduced the poet's already meagre income; but, as professor skeat points out, we have every indication that chaucer made a good literary use of this period of enforced leisure and straitened means. in the years and he probably wrote the greater part of the "canterbury tales." next year came a pleasant change of fortune. the king, after a vain attempt to reassert himself by force of arms, had been obliged to sacrifice many of his trustiest servants; and the "merciless parliament" of executed, among other distinguished victims, chaucer's old colleagues sir nicholas brembre and sir simon burley. richard, with rage in his heart, bided his time, and gave plenty of rope to the lords who had reduced him to tutelage and impeached his ministers. then, when their essential factiousness and self-seeking had become manifest to the world, he struck his blow. in may, , "he suddenly entered the privy council, took his seat among the expectant lords, and asked, 'what age am i?' they answered that he had now fulfilled twenty years. 'then,' said he, 'i am of full age to govern my house, my servants, and my realm ... for every heir of my realm who has lost his father, when he reaches the twentieth year of his age, is permitted to manage his own affairs as he will.'" he at once dismissed the chancellor and treasurer, and presently recalled john of gaunt from spain as a counterpoise to john's factious younger brother, the duke of gloucester. with one patron thus returned to power, and another on his way, it was natural that chaucer's luck should turn. two months after this scene in council he was appointed by richard ii. "clerk of our works at our palace of westminster, our tower of london, our castle of berkhampstead, our manors of kennington, eltham, clarendon, shene, byfleet, chiltern langley, and feckenham, our lodges at hathebergh in our new forest, and in our other parks, and our mews for falcons at charing cross; likewise of our gardens, fish-ponds, mills and park enclosures pertaining to the said palace, tower, castles, manors, lodges, and mews, with powers (by self or deputy) to choose and take masons, carpenters and all and sundry other workmen and labourers who are needed for our works, wheresoever they can be found, within or without all liberties (church fee alone excepted); and to set the same to labour at the said works, at our wages." our poet had also plenary powers to impress building materials and cartage at the king's prices, to put the good and loyal men of the districts on their oath to report any theft or embezzlement of materials, to bring back runaways, and "to arrest and take all whom he may here find refractory or rebellious, and to cast them into our prisons, there to remain until they shall have found surety for labouring at our works according to the injunctions given in our name." that these time-honoured clauses were no dead letter, is shown by the still surviving documents in which chaucer deputed to hugh swayn and three others his duties of impressing workmen and impounding materials, by the constant petitions of medieval parliaments against this system of "purveyance" for the king's necessities, and by different earlier entries in the letter-books of the city of london. search was made throughout the capital for fugitive workmen; they were clapped into newgate without further ceremony; and one john de alleford seems to have made a profitable business for a short while by "pretending to be a purveyor of our lord the king, to take carpenters for the use of the king in order to work at the castle of windsor."[ ] we have a curious inventory of the "dead stock" which chaucer took over from his predecessors in the clerkship, and for which he made himself responsible; the list ranges from "one bronze image, two stone images unpainted, seven images in the likeness of kings" for westminster palace, with considerable fittings for the lists and galleries of a tournament, and stone cannon balls for the tower, down to "one broken cable ... one dilapidated pitchfork ... three sieves, whereof two are crazy."[ ] for all this, which he was allowed to do by deputy, chaucer received two shillings a day, or something like £ a year of modern money.[ ] further commissions of the same kind were granted to him: the supervision of the works at st. george's chapel, windsor, which was "threatened with ruin, and on the point of falling to the ground;" and again of a great scaffold in smithfield for the royal party on the occasion of the tournament in may, . two months earlier in this same year he had been associated with his old colleague sir richard stury and others on a commission to repair the dykes and drains of thames from greenwich to woolwich, which were "so broken and ruined that manifold and inestimable damages have happened in times past, and more are feared for the future." a marginal note on a ms. of his "envoy to scogan," written some three years later, states that the poet was then living at greenwich; and a casual remark in the "canterbury tales" very probably points in the same direction.[ ] either in or a geoffrey chaucer, who was probably the poet, was appointed forester of north petherton park in somerset. but here again we find one single mischance breaking the even tenour of chaucer's new-born prosperity. in september, , while on his journeys as clerk of the works, he was the victim of at least two, and just possibly three, highway robberies (of which two were on one day) at westminster, and near "the foul oak" at hatcham. two of the robbers were in a position to claim benefit of clergy; thomas talbot, an irishman, was nowhere to be found; and the fourth, richard brerelay, escaped for the moment by turning king's evidence. he was, however, accused of another robbery in hertfordshire, and attempted to save his life by charging thomas talbot's servant with complicity in the crime. this time the accused offered "wager of battle." brerelay was vanquished in the duel, and strung up out of hand. it is difficult to resist the conviction that chaucer was by this time recognized as an unbusiness-like person; for the king deprived him of his clerkship in the following june ( ), at a time when we can find nothing in the political situation to account for the dismissal. chapter vi last days "i strove with none, for none was worth my strife: nature i loved, and, next to nature, art. i warmed both hands before the fire of life: it sinks; and i am ready to depart." w. s. landor from this time forward chaucer seems to have lived from hand to mouth. he had, as will presently be seen, a son, stepson, or foster-son of considerable wealth and position; and no doubt he had other good friends too. we have reason to believe that he was still working at the "canterbury tales," and receiving such stray crumbs from great men's tables as remained the main reward of literature until modern times. in (if we may judge from the fact that problems in the book are calculated for that year) he wrote the "treatise on the astrolabe" for the instruction of his ten-year-old son lewis.[ ] it was most likely in that he wrote from greenwich the "envoy" to his friend henry scogan, who was then with the court at windsor, "at the stream's head of grace." the poet urges him there to make profitable mention of his friend, "forgot in solitary wilderness" at the lower end of the same river; and it is natural to connect this with the fact that, in , richard granted chaucer a fresh pension of £ a year for life. but the king's exchequer was constantly empty, and we have seen that the poet's was seldom full; so we need not be surprised to find him constantly applying for his pension at irregular times during the rest of the reign. twice he dunned his royal patron for the paltry sum of _s._ _d._ more significant still is a record of the court of common pleas showing that he was sued by isabella buckholt for the sum of £ . _s._ _d._ some time between april and may , ; the sheriff of middlesex reported that chaucer had no possessions in his bailiwick. on may the poet obtained letters of protection, in which the king alludes formally to the "very many arduous and urgent affairs" with which "our beloved esquire" is entrusted, and therefore takes him with "his men, lands, goods, rents, and all his possessions" under the royal protection, and forbids all pleas or arrests against him for the next two years. the recital of these arduous and urgent affairs is no doubt (like that of chaucer's lands and rents) a mere legal form; but the protection was real. isabella buckholt pressed her suit, but the sheriff returned in october, , and june, , that the defendant "could not be found." yet all this time chaucer was visible enough, for he was petitioning the king for formal letters patent to confirm a grant already made by word of mouth in the preceding december, of a yearly butt of wine from the royal cellars "for god's sake, and as a work of charity." this grant, valued at about £ of modern money, was confirmed on october , , and was the last gift from richard to chaucer. before twelve months were gone, the captive king had ravelled out his weaved-up follies before his pitiless accusers in the tower of london; and on the very th of october, year for year, on which chaucer had received his butt of wine from richard ii., a fresh poetical supplication brought him a still greater favour from the next king. henry iv. granted on his own account a pension of forty marks in addition to richard's; and five days afterwards we find chaucer pleading that he had "accidentally lost" the late king's letters patent for the pension and the wine, and begging for their renewal under henry's hand. the favour was granted, and chaucer was thus freed from any uncertainty which might have attached to his former grants from a deposed king, even though one of them was already recognized and renewed in henry's letters of october .[ ] "king richard," writes froissart, "had a greyhound called math, who always waited upon the king and would know no man else; for whensoever the king did ride, he that kept the greyhound did let him loose, and he would straight run to the king and fawn upon him and leap with his fore feet upon the king's shoulders. and as the king and the earl of derby talked together in the court, the greyhound, who was wont to leap upon the king, left the king and came to the earl of derby, duke of lancaster, and made to him the same friendly countenance and cheer as he was wont to do to the king. the duke, who knew not the greyhound, demanded of the king what the greyhound would do. 'cousin,' quoth the king, 'it is a great good token to you and an evil sign to me.' 'sir, how know you that?' quoth the duke. 'i know it well,' quoth the king, 'the greyhound maketh you cheer this day as king of england, as ye shall be, and i shall be deposed. the greyhound hath this knowledge naturally; therefore take him to you; he will follow you and forsake me.' the duke understood well those words and cherished the greyhound, who would never after follow king richard, but followed the duke of lancaster: [and more than thirty thousand men saw and knew this."[ ]] the fickle hound did but foreshadow the bearing of richard's dependents in general. the poem in which chaucer hastened to salute the new king of a few days breathed no word of pity for his fallen predecessor, but hailed henry as the saviour of england, "conqueror of albion," "very king by lineage and free election."[ ] in the months that followed, while chaucer enjoyed his wine and his pension, the king who first gave them was starving himself, or being starved by his gaolers, at pontefract. it must of course be remembered that, while richard was felt on all hands to have thrown his splendid chances wantonly away, henry was the son of chaucer's best patron; and indeed the poet had recently been in close relations with the future king, if not actually in his service.[ ] still, we know that few were willing to suffer in those days for untimely faith to a fallen sovereign, and we ourselves have less reason to blame the many, than to thank the luckier stars under which such trials of loyalty are spared to our generation. chaucer's contemporary and fellow-courtier, froissart, might indeed write bitterly in his old age about a people which could change its ruler like an old glove; but froissart was at ease in his fat canonry of chimay; while chaucer, with a hundred poets before and since, had chirped like a cricket all through the summer, and was now face to face with cold and starvation in the winter of his life. his own last poems invite us to pause here a moment; for they smack of old age, infirmities, and disillusions. when he writes now of love, it is in the tone of wamba the witless: "wait till you come to forty year!" there is the half-ironical ballad to rosamond, a young beauty whom he must be content to admire now from afar, yet upon whom he dotes even so-- was never pike wallowed in galantine as i in love am wallowed and y-bound. or again the triple roundel to merciless beauty, most uncomplimentary in the outspoken triumph-note of its close-- since i from love escapèd am so fat, i never think to be in his prison lean; since i am free, i count him not a bean. he may answèr, and sayë this or that; i do no force, i speak right as i mean [i care no whit _since i from love escapèd am so fat, i never think to be in his prison lean_. love hath my name y-struck out of his slate, and he is struck out my bookës clean for evermore; there is none other mean. _since i from love escapèd am so fat, i never think to be in his prison lean; since i am free, i count him not a bean!_ then we have "the former age"--a sigh for the golden past, and a tear for the ungrateful present-- alas, alas! now may men weep and cry! for in our days is nought but covetise and doubleness, and treason, and envý, prison, manslaughter, and murder in sundry wise.[ ] then again a series of four ballads on fortune, beginning "this wretched worldës transmutacioun"; a "complaint of venus"; the two begging epistles to scogan and henry iv.; a satire against marriage addressed to his friend bukton; a piteous complaint entitled "lack of steadfastness," and two moral poems on gentilesse (true gentility) and on truth. the last of these is not only the most truly poetical of them all, but also the bravest and most resigned-- flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness ... that thee is sent, receive in buxomness [obedience the wrestling for this world asketh a fall [requires, implies here is no home, here is but wilderness: forth, pilgrim, forth! forth, beast, out of thy stall! know thy countree, look up, thank god of all; hold the high way, and let thy ghost thee lead, and truth shall thee deliver, it is no dread. the bitter complaints against his own times which occur in these later poems are of the ordinary medieval type; the courage and resignation are chaucer's own, and give a strangely modern ring to his words. he had indeed reached a point of experience at which all centuries are drawn again into closer kinship, just as early childhood is much the same in all countries and all ages of the world. there is something in chaucer's later writings that reminds us of renan's "pauvre âme déveloutée de soixante ans." all through life this shy, dreamy-eyed, full-bodied poet showed remarkable detachment from the history of his own times. professor raleigh has pointed out that his avoidance of all but the slightest allusions to even the greatest of contemporary events may well seem deliberate, however much allowance we may make for the fact that the landmarks of history are, in their own day, half overgrown by the common weeds of daily life. but, for all his detachment and his shyness of autobiographical allusions, there is one unmistakable contrast between his earliest and latest poems: and we may clearly trace the progress from youthful enthusiasms to the old man's disillusions. yet there is no bitterness in chaucer's old age; we see in him what ruskin calls "a tory of the old school--walter scott's school, that is to say, and homer's"; loyal to monarchy and deeply distrustful of democracy, yet never doubting the king's ultimate responsibility to his people. we see his resignation to the transitory nature of earthly happiness, even though he cannot quite forgive life for its disappointments. his later ironies on the subject of love tell their own tale. no man can mistake them for the jests of him that never felt a wound; rather, we may see how the old scars had once bled and sometimes burned still, though there was no reason why a man should die of them. he anticipates in effect heine's tragi-comic appeal, "hate me, ladies, laugh at me, jilt me, but let me live!" for all that we have lost or missed, the world is no mere vale of tears-- but, lord christ! when that it remembreth me upon my youth, and on my jollity, it tickleth me about mine heartë-root. unto this day it doth mine heartë boot that i have had my world as in my time! but age, alas!---- well, even age has its consolations-- the flour is gone, there is no more to tell, the bran, as i best can, now must i sell! there we have, in a couple of lines, the philosophy of chaucer's later years--to take life as we find it, and make the best of it. if he had cared to take up the full burden of his time, there were plenty of themes for tragedy. the world seemed to grow madder and madder as the th century drew to its close; edward iii.'s sun had gone down in disgrace; his grandson's brilliant infancy had passed into a childish manhood, whose wayward extravagances ended only too naturally in the tragedy of pontefract; the emperor wenceslas was a shameless drunkard, and charles vi. of france a raving madman; pope urban vi. seemed half crazy, even to his own supporters.[ ] the great pestilence and the papal schism, the jacquerie in france, and the peasants' revolt in england, had shaken society to its foundations; but chaucer let all these things go by with scarcely more than a shrug of his shoulders. to the contemporary authors of piers plowman, and in a less degree to john gower, the world of that time was vanity fair in bunyan's sense; a place of constant struggle and danger, in which every honest pilgrim marches with his back to the flames of the city of destruction, marks their lurid glare on the faces of the crowd, and sees the slightest gesture magnified into shadows that reach to the very stars. to chaucer the poet it was rather thackeray's vanity fair: a place where the greatest problems of life may be brought up for a moment, but can only be dismissed as insoluble; where humanity is far less interesting than the separate human beings which compose it; where we eat with them, talk with them, laugh and weep with them, yet play with them all the while in our own mind; so that, when at last it draws towards sunset, we have no more to say than "come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for the play is played out." but behind and beneath chaucer the poet was chaucer the man, whose last cry is recorded at the end of the "canterbury tales." everything points to a failure of his health for some months at any rate before his death. the monks of westminster were no doubt often at his bedside; and, though he had evidently drifted some way from his early creed, we must beware of exaggerations on this point.[ ] moreover, even if his unorthodoxy had been far greater than we have any reason to believe, it needed a temper very different from chaucer's to withstand, under medieval conditions, the terrors of the unknown and the constant visitations of the clergy. indeed, it seems superfluous to offer any explanation or apology for a document which is, on its face, as true a cry of the heart as the dying man's instinctive call for his mother. "i beseech you meekly of god" (so runs the epilogue to the "parson's tale") "that ye pray for me that christ have mercy on me and forgive me my guilts--and namely [especially] of my translations and enditings of worldly vanities.... and many a song and many a lecherous lay, that christ for his great mercy forgive me the sin ... and grant me grace of very penitence, confession and satisfaction to do in this present life, through the benign grace of him that is king of kings and priest over all priests, that bought us with the precious blood of his heart; so that i may be one of them at the day of doom that shall be saved." but we are anticipating. the generosity of henry iv., as we have seen, had brought chaucer once again into easy circumstances, and within a few weeks we find him leasing from the westminster abbey "a tenement, with its appurtenances, situate in the garden of st. mary's chapel," _i.e._ somewhere on the site of the present henry vii.'s chapel, sheltered by the south-eastern walls of the abbey church, and "nigh to the white rose tavern"; for in those days the westminster precincts contained houses of the most miscellaneous description, which all enjoyed the privilege of sanctuary. near this spot, in , henry iii. had ordered pear trees to be planted "in the herbary between the king's chamber and the church."[ ] "he that plants pears, plants for his heirs," says the old proverb; and it is pleasant to believe that chaucer enjoyed at least the blossom of this ancient orchard, if not its fruit. he took the house at a rent of four marks for as many of the next fifty-three years as his life might last; but he was not fated to enjoy it for so many weeks. in february, , he drew an instalment of one of his pensions; in june another instalment was paid through the hands of one william somere; and then the royal accounts record no more. he died on october , according to the inscription on his tomb, the first literary monument in that part of the abbey which has since received the name of poet's corner.[ ] it is probable that we owe this fortunate circumstance still more to the fact that chaucer was an abbey tenant than to his distinction as courtier or poet. when gower died, eight years later, his body was laid just as naturally among the austin canons of southwark with whom he had spent his last years. [illustration: westminster abbey and palace in the th century (from vertue's engraving of aggas's map) (the two-gabled house just below henry vii's chapel (e) might possibly be chaucer's actual dwelling)] [illustration: westminster abbey, as seen from the windows of chaucer's house (on extreme right, part of henry vii's chapel, built on the site of st. mary's chapel)] the industry of mr. edward scott has discovered that this same house in st. mary's chapel garden was let, from at least until his death in , to thomas chaucer, who was probably the poet's son. this thomas was a man of considerable wealth and position. he began as a _protégé_ of john of gaunt, and became chief butler to richard ii., henry iv., and henry v. in succession; constable of wallingford castle, and m.p. for oxfordshire in nine parliaments between and . he was many times speaker, a commissioner for the marriage of henry v., and an ambassador to treat for peace with france; fought at agincourt with a retinue of twelve men-at-arms and thirty-seven archers; became a member of the king's council, and died a very rich man. his only daughter made two very distinguished marriages; and her grandson was that earl of lincoln whom richard iii. declared his heir-apparent. for a while it seemed likely that geoffrey chaucer's descendants would sit on the throne of england, but the earl died in fight against henry vii. at stoke. of the poet's "little son lewis" we hear no more after that brief glimpse of his boyhood; and elizabeth chaucy, the only other person whom we can with any probability claim as chaucer's child, was entered as a nun at barking in , john of gaunt paying £ _s._ _d._ for her expenses. it is just possible, however, that this may be the same elizabeth chausier who was received as a nun in st. helen's priory four years earlier, at the king's nomination; in this case the date would point more probably to the poet's sister. this is not the place for any literary dissertation on chaucer's poetry, which has already been admirably discussed by many modern critics, from lowell onwards. he did more than any other man to fix the literary english tongue: he was the first real master of style in our language, and retained an undisputed supremacy until the elizabethan age. this he owes (as has often been pointed out) not only to his natural genius, but also to the happy chances which gave him so wide an experience of society. living in one of the most brilliant epochs of english history, he was by turns lover, courtier, soldier, man of business, student, ambassador, justice of the peace, member of parliament, thames conservator, and perhaps even something of an architect, if he took his clerkship of the works seriously. all these experiences were mirrored in eyes as observant, and treasured in as faithful a memory, as those of any other english poet but one; and to these natural gifts of the born portrait-painter he added the crowning quality of a perfect style. if his writings have been hailed as a "well of english undefiled," it was because he spoke habitually, and therefore wrote naturally, the best english of his day, the english of the court and of the higher clergy. in this he was even more fortunate than dante, as he surpassed dante in variety (though not in intenseness) of experience, and as he knew one more language than he. when we note with astonishment the freshness of chaucer's characters across these five centuries, we must always remember that his exceptional experience and powers of observation were combined with an equally extraordinary mastery of expression. it is because chaucer's speech ranges with absolute ease from the best talk of the best society, down to the miller's broad buffoonery or the north-country jargon of the cambridge students, that his characters seem to us so modern in spite of the social and political revolutions which separate their world from ours. it will be my aim to portray, in the remaining chapters, the england of that day in those features which throw most light on the peculiarities of chaucer's men and women. chapter vii london custom-house "forget six counties overhung with smoke, forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, forget the spreading of the hideous town; think rather of the pack-horse on the down, and dream of london, small, and white, and clean, the clear thames bordered by its gardens green; think, that below bridge the green lapping waves smite some few keels that bear levantine staves, cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill, and pointed jars that greek hands toiled to fill, and treasured scanty spice from some far sea, florence gold cloth, and ypres napery, and cloth of bruges, and hogsheads of guienne; while nigh the thronged wharf geoffrey chaucer's pen moves over bills of lading----" w. morris there are two episodes of chaucer's life which belong even more properly to chaucer's england; in which it may not only be said that our interest is concentrated less on the man than on his surroundings, but even that we can scarcely get a glimpse of the man except through his surroundings. these two episodes are his life in london, and his canterbury pilgrimage; and with these we may most fitly begin our survey of the world in which he lived. the most tranquilly prosperous period of the poet's life was that space of twelve years, from to , during which he lived over the tower of aldgate and worked at the customs house, with occasional interruptions of foreign travel on the king's business. the tower of london, according to popular belief, had its foundations cemented with blood; and this was only too true of chaucer's aldgate. it was a massive structure, double-gated and double-portcullised, and built in part with the stones of jews' houses plundered and torn down by the barons who took london in . but, in spite of similar incidents here and there, england was generally so free from civil war that the townsfolk were very commonly tempted to avoid unnecessary outlay upon fortifications. the traveller in germany or switzerland is often surprised to see even villages strongly walled against robber barons; while we may find great and wealthy english towns like lynn and cambridge which had little other defence than a ditch and palisade.[ ] even in fortified cities like london, the tendency was to neglect the walls--at one period we find men even pulling them gradually to pieces[ ]--and to let the towers or gates for private lodgings. as early as the last year of edward i., we find cripplegate thus let out; and such notices are frequent in the "memorials of london life," collected by mr. riley from the city archives.[ ] here chaucer had only half a mile to go to his daily work, by streets which we may follow still. if he took the stricter view, which held that gentlefolk ought to begin their day with a mass, and to hear it fasting, then he had at least st. michael's, aldgate, and all hallows stonechurch on his direct way, and two others within a few yards of his road. if, however, he was of those who preferred to begin the day with a sop of wine or "a draught of moist and corny ale," then the noted hostelry of the saracen's head probably stood even then, and had stood since the time of the crusades, within a few yards of aldgate tower. close by the fork of fenchurch and leadenhall streets he would pass a "fair and large-built house," the town inn of the prior of hornchurch. then, in fenchurch street, the mansion and garden of the earls of northumberland, and again, at the corner of mart lane, the manor and garden of blanch apleton. turning down mart lane (now corrupted into _mark_), the poet would pass the great chain, ready to be stretched at any moment across the narrow street, which marked the limits of aldgate and tower street wards. he would cross tower street a few yards to the eastward of "the quadrant called galley row, because galley men dwelt there." these galley men were "divers strangers, born in genoa and those parts," whose settlement in london had probably been the object of chaucer's first italian mission, and who presently prospered sufficiently to fill not only this quadrant, but also part of minchin lane, and to possess a quay of their own. but, like their cousins the lombards, these genoese soon showed themselves smarter business men even than their hosts. they introduced unauthorized halfpence of genoa, called "galley halfpence"; and these, with similar "suskings" from france, and "dodkins" from the low countries, survived the strict penalties threatened by two acts of parliament, and lasted on at least till elizabeth's reign. "in my youth," writes stow, "i have seen them pass current, but with some difficulty, for the english halfpence were then, though not so broad, somewhat thicker and stronger."[ ] stow found a building on the quay which he identified with their hall. "it seemeth that the builders of the hall of this house were shipwrights, and not carpenters;" for it was clinker-built like a boat, "and seemeth as it were a galley, the keel turned upwards." but this building was probably later than chaucer's time. the galley quay almost touched that of the custom-house; and here our poet had abundant opportunities of keeping up his italian while sampling the "wines of crete and other sweet wines in one of the cellars, and red and white wines in the other cellar."[ ] his poems show an appreciation of good vintages, which was no doubt partly hereditary and partly acquired on the london quays, where he could talk with these mediterranean mariners and drink the juice of their native grapes, remembering all the while how he had once watched them ripening on those southern slopes-- how richly, down the rocky dell, the torrent vineyard streaming fell to meet the sun and sunny waters that only heaved with a summer swell![ ] when chaucer began his work in there was no regular building for the customs; the king hired a house for the purpose at £ a year, and a single boatman watched in the port to prevent smuggling. in , however, one john churchman built a house, which richard ii. undertook to hire for the rest of the builder's life; this became the first custom-house, and lasted until elizabeth's reign. the lease gives its modest proportions exactly: a ground floor, in which the king kept his weigh-beams for wool and other merchandise; a "solar," or upper chamber, for a counting-house; and above this yet another solar, by - / feet, partitioned into "two chambers and one _garret_, as men call it." for this new house the king paid the somewhat higher rent of £ . chaucer was bound by the terms of his appointment to do the work personally, without substitute, and to write his "rolls touching the said office with his own hand"; but it is probable that he accepted these terms with the usual medieval licence. he went abroad at least five times on the king's service during his term of office; and the two original rolls which survive are apparently not written by his hand. his own words in the "house of fame" show that he took his book-keeping work at the office seriously; but it is not likely that the press of business was such as to keep him always at the counting-house; and he may well have helped his boatman to patrol the port, which extended down-river to gravesend and tilbury. it is at least certain that, in , he caught john kent smuggling a cargo of wool away from london, and so earned prize-money to the value of £ in modern currency. it is certain also that his daily work for twelve years must have kept him in close daily contact with sea-faring folk, who, from homer's days at least, have always provided the richest food for poetry and romance. the commonest seaman had stirring tales to tell in those days, when every sailor was a potential pirate, and foreign crews dealt with each other by methods still more summary than plank-walking.[ ] moreover, there was even more truth than now in the proverb that "far fowls have fair feathers"; and the genoese on galley quay had sailed many seas unknown even to the tempest-tossed shipman of dartmouth, whose southern limit was cape finisterre. they had passed the pillars of hercules, and seen the apes on the rock of gibraltar, and shuddered from afar at the great whirlpool of the bay of biscay, which sucked in its floods thrice daily, and thrice belched them forth again; and into which about this time "four vessels of the town of lynn, steering too incautiously, suddenly fell, and were swallowed up under their comrades' eyes."[ ] moreover, the very streets and markets of london then presented a pageant unquestionably far more inspiring to a man of chaucer's temperament than anything that can be seen there to-day. it is easy to exaggerate the contrast between modern and medieval london, if only by leaving out of account those subtle attractions which kept even william morris from tearing himself away from the much-abused town. it is also undeniable that, however small and white, chaucer's london was not clean, even to the outward eye; and that the exclusive passion for gothic buildings is to some extent a mere modern fashion, as it was the fashion two hundred years ago to consider them a positive eyesore. to some great poet of the future, modern london may well supply a grander canvas still; but to a writer like chaucer, content to avoid psychological problems and take men and things as they appear on the surface, there was every possible inspiration in this busy capital of some , souls, where everybody could see everything that went on, and it was almost possible to know all one's fellow-citizens by sight. some streets, no doubt, were as crowded as any oriental bazaar; but most of the buying and selling went on in open market, with lavish expenditure of words and gestures; while the shops were open booths in which the passer-by could see master and men at their work, and stop to chat with them on his way. in the absence of catalogues and advertisements, every man spread out his gayest wares in the sun, and commended them to the public with every resource of mother-wit or professional rhetoric. cornhill and cheapside were like the mercato vecchio at florence or st. mark's square at venice. extremes meet in modern london, and there is theme enough for poetry in the deeper contrasts that underlie our uniformity of architecture and dress. but in chaucer's london the crowd was almost as motley to man's eye as to god's-- barons and burgesses and bondmen also ... baxters and brewsters and butchers many, woolwebsters and weavers of linen, tailors and tinkers and tollers in markets, masons and miners and many other crafts ... of all-kind living labourers leapt forth some, as dykers and delvers that do their deeds ill, and drive forth the long day with _dieu vous sauve, dame emme_ cooks and their knaves cried "hot pies, hot! good griskin and geese! go dine, go!" taverners unto them told the same [tale] "white wine of alsace and red wine of gascoyne, of the rhine and of rochelle, the roast to defye!" [digest.[ ] the very sticks and stones had an individuality no less marked. the churches, parish and monastic, stood out as conspicuously as they still stand in norwich, and were often used for secular purposes, despite the prohibitions of synods and councils. for even london had in chaucer's time scarcely any secular public buildings, while at norwich, one of the four greatest towns in the kingdom, public meetings were sometimes held in the tolhouse, sometimes in the chapel of st. mary's college, in default of a regular guildhall. the city houses of noblemen and great churchmen were numerous and often splendid, and besant rightly emphasizes this feudal aspect of the city; but he seems in his enumeration of the lords' retainers to allow too little for medieval licence in dealing with figures; and certainly he has exaggerated their architectural magnificence beyond all reason.[ ] but at least the ordinary citizens' and artisans' dwellings presented the most picturesque variety. here and there a stone house, rare enough to earn special mention in official documents; but most of the dwellings were of timber and plaster, in front and behind, with only side-gables of masonry for some sort of security against the spreading of fires.[ ] the ground floor was generally open to the street, and formed the shop; then, some eight or ten feet above the pavement, came the "solar" or "soller" on its projecting brackets, and sometimes (as in the custom house) a third storey also. outside stairs seem to have been common, and sometimes penthouses on pillars or cellar steps further broke the monotony of the street, though frequent enactments strove to regulate these in the public interest. of comfort or privacy in the modern sense these houses had little to offer. the living rooms were frequently limited to hall and bower (_i.e._ bedroom); only the better sort had two chambers; glass was rare; in paris, which was at least as well-built as london, a well-to-do citizen might well have windows of oiled linen for his bedroom, and even in a good-sized house at sheffield contained only sixteen feet of glass altogether.[ ] meanwhile the wooden shutters which did duty for casements were naturally full of chinks; and the inhabitants were exposed during dark nights not only to the nuisance and danger of "common listeners at the eaves," against whom medieval town legislation is deservedly severe, but also to the far greater chances of burglary afforded by the frailty of their habitations. it is not infrequently recorded in medieval inquests that the housebreaker found his line of least resistance not through a window or a door, but through the wall itself.[ ] moreover, in those unlighted streets, much that was most picturesque by day was most dangerous at night, from the projecting staircases and penthouses down to doorways unlawfully opened after curfew, wherein "aspyers" might lurk, "waiting men for to beaten or to slayen." these and many similar considerations will serve to explain why night-walking was treated in medieval towns as an offence presumptively no less criminal than, in our days, the illegal possession of dynamite. the th-century statutes of oxford condemn the nocturnal wanderer to a fine double that which he would have incurred by shooting at a proctor and his attendants with intent to injure.[ ] [illustration: the tower, with london bridge in the background (from ms. roy. f. ii, f. : a late th century ms. of the poems of charles d'orlÉans)] but to return to the inside of the houses. the contract for a well-to-do citizen's dwelling of has been preserved, by a fortunate chance, in one of the city letter-books. "simon de canterbury, carpenter, came before the mayor and aldermen ... and acknowledged that he would make at his own proper charges, down to the locks, for william de hanigtone, skinner, before the feast of easter then next ensuing, a hall and a room with a chimney, and one larder between the said hall and room; and one solar over the room and larder; also, one oriel at the end of the hall, beyond the high bench, and one step with a porch from the ground to the door of the hall aforesaid, outside of that hall; and two enclosures as cellars, opposite to each other, beneath the hall; and one enclosure for a sewer, with two pipes leading to the said sewer; and one stable, [_blank_] in length, between the said hall and the old kitchen, and twelve feet in width, with a solar above such stable, and a garret above the solar aforesaid; and at one end of such solar, there is to be a kitchen with a chimney; and there is to be an oriel between the said hall and the old chamber, eight feet in width.... and the said william de hanigtone acknowledged that he was bound to pay to simon before-mentioned, for the work aforesaid, the sum of £ _s._ _d._ sterling, half a hundred of eastern martenskins, fur for a woman's head, value five shillings, and fur for a robe of him, the said simon, etc."[ ] read side by side with this the list of another fairly well-to-do citizen's furniture in . hugh le benere, a vintner who owned several tenements, was accused of having murdered alice his wife.[ ] he refused to plead, was condemned to prison for life, and his goods were inventoried. omitting the stock-in-trade of six casks of wine (valued at six marks), the wearing apparel, and the helmet and quilted doublet in which hugh had to turn out for the general muster, the whole furniture was as follows: "one mattress, value _s._; blankets and one serge, _s._ _d._; one green carpet, _s._; one torn coverlet, with shields of sendal, _s._; ... linen sheets, _s._; one table-cloth, _s._; table-cloths, _d._; ... one canvas, _d._; feather beds, _s._; cushions, _d._; ... brass pots, _s._; one brass pot, _s._; pairs of brass pots, _s._ _d._; one brass pot, broken, _s._ _d._; one candlestick of latten, and one plate, with one small brass plate, _s._; pieces of lead, _d._; one grate, _d._; andirons, _d._; basins, with one washing vessel, _s._; one iron grating, _d._; one tripod, _d._; ... one iron spit, _d._; one frying-pan, _d._; ... one funnel, _d._; one small canvas bag, _d._; ... one old linen sheet, _d._; pillows, _d._; ... one counter, _s._; coffers, _d._; curtains, _d._; remnants of cloth, _d._; chests, _s._ _d._; one folding table, _d._; chairs, _d._; one portable cupboard, _d._; tubs, _s._; also firewood, sold for _s._; one mazer cup, _s._; ... one cup called "note" (_i.e._ cocoanut) with a foot and cover of silver, value _s._; silver spoons, _s._"[ ] this implies no very high standard of domestic comfort. the hall, it must be remembered, had no chimney in the modern sense, but a hole in the roof to which the smoke went up from an open hearth in the centre of the room, more or less assisted in most cases by a funnel-shaped erection of lath and plaster.[ ] it is not generally realized what draughts our ancestors were obliged to accept as unavoidable, even when they sat partially screened by their high-backed seats, as in old inn kitchens. a man needed his warmest furs still more for sitting indoors than for walking abroad; and to montaigne, even in , one of the most remarkable things in switzerland was the draughtless comfort of the stove-warmed rooms. "one neither burns one's face nor one's boots, and one escapes the smoke of french houses. moreover, whereas we [in france] take our warm and furred _robes de chambre_ when we enter the house, they on the contrary dress in their doublets, with their heads uncovered to the very hair, and put on their warm clothes to walk in the open air."[ ] the important part played by furs of all kinds, and the matter-of-course mention of dirt and vermin, are among the first things that strike us in medieval literature. but the worst discomfort of the house, to the modern mind, was the want of privacy. there was generally but one bedroom; for most of the household the house meant simply the hall; and some of those with whom the rest were brought into such close contact might indeed be "gey ill to live wi'."[ ] we have seen that, even as a king's squire, chaucer had not a bed to himself; and sometimes one bed had to accommodate three occupants. this was so ordered, for instance, by the th-century statutes of the choir-school at wells, which provided minutely for the packing: "two smaller boys with their heads to the head of the bed, and an older one with his head to the foot of the bed and his feet between the others' heads." a distinguished theologian of the same century, narrating a ghost-story of his own, begins quite naturally: "when i was a youth, and lay in a square chamber, which had only a single door well shut from within, together with three more companions in the same bed...." one of these, we presently find, "was of greater age, and a man of some experience."[ ] the upper classes of chaucer's later days had indeed begun to introduce revolutionary changes into the old-fashioned common life of the hall; a generation of unparalleled success in war and commerce was already making possible, and therefore inevitable, a new cleavage between class and class. the author of the b. text of "piers plowman," writing about , complains of these new and unsociable ways (x., ). "ailing is the hall each day in the week, where the lord nor the lady liketh not to sit. now hath each rich man a rule to eaten by himself in a privy parlour, for poor men's sake, or in a chamber with a chimney, and leave the chief hall, that was made for meals, and men to eaten in." few men, however, could afford even these rudiments of privacy; people like chaucer, of fair income and good social position, still found in their homes many of the discomforts of shipboard; and their daily intercourse with their fellow-men bred the same blunt familiarity, even beneath the most ceremonious outward fashions. it was not only starveling dependents like lippo lippi, whose daily life compelled them to study night and day the faces and outward ways of their fellow-men. but let us get back again into the street, where all the work and play of london was as visible to the passer-by as that of any colony of working ants under the glass cases in a modern exhibition. often, of course, there were set pageants for edification or distraction--miracle plays and solemn church processions twice or thrice in the year,--the mayor's annual ride to the palace of westminster and back,--the king's return with a new queen or after a successful campaign, as in , when edward iii. "came over the bridge and through the city of london, with the king of france and other prisoners of rich ransom in his train. he entered the city about tierce [ a.m.] and made for westminster; but at the news of his coming so great a crowd of folk ran together to see this marvellous sight, that for the press of the people he could scarce reach his palace after noonday." frequent again were the royal tournaments at smithfield, cheapside, and westminster, or "trials by battle" in those same lists, when one gentleman had accused another of treachery, and london citizens might see the quarrel decided by god's judgment.[ ] here were welcome contrasts to the monotony of household life; for there was in all these shows a piquant element of personal risk, or at least of possible broken heads for others. even if the king threw down his truncheon before the bitter end of the duel, even if no bones were broken at the tournament, something at least would happen amongst the crowd. fountains ran wine in the morning, and blood was pretty sure to be shed somewhere before night. in , when the little french princess of eight years was brought to her royal bridegroom at westminster, nine persons were crushed to death on london bridge, and the prior of tiptree was among the dead. even the church processions, as episcopal registers show, ended not infrequently in scuffling, blows, and bloodshed; and the frequent holy days enjoyed then, as since, a sad notoriety for crime. moreover, these things were not, as with us, mere matters of newspaper knowledge; they stared the passer-by in the face. chaucer must have heard from his father how the unpopular bishop stapledon was torn from his horse at the north door of st. paul's and beheaded with two of his esquires in cheapside; how the clergy of the cathedral and of st. clement's feared to harbour the corpses, which lay naked by the roadside at temple bar until "women and wretched poor folk took the bishop's naked corpse, and a woman gave him an old rag to cover his belly, and they buried him in a waste plot called the lawless church, with his squires by his side, all naked and without office of priest or clerk."[ ] chaucer himself must have seen some of the many similar tragedies in , for they are among the few events of contemporary history which we can definitely trace in his poems-- have ye not seen some time a palë face among a press, of him that hath been led toward his death, where as him gat no grace, and such a colour in his face hath had, men mightë know his face that was bestead amongës all the faces in that rout?[ ] what modern londoner has witnessed this, or anything like it? yet to all his living readers chaucer appealed confidently, "have ye not seen?" scores of wretched lawyers and jurors were hunted down in that riot, and hurried through the streets to have their heads hacked off at tower hill or cheapside, "and many flemings lost their head at that time, and namely [specially] they that could not say 'bread and cheese,' but 'case and brode.'"[ ] it may well have been simon of sudbury's white face that haunted chaucer, when the mob forgot his archbishopric in the unpopularity of his ministry, forgot the sanctity of the chapel at whose altar he had taken refuge, "paid no reverence even to the lord's body which the priest held up before him, but worse than demons (who fear and flee christ's sacrament) dragged him by the arms, by his hood, by different parts of the body towards their fellow-rioters on tower hill without the gates. when they had come thither, a most horrible shout arose, not like men's shouts, but worse beyond all comparison than all human cries, and most like to the yelling of devils in hell. moreover, they cried thus whensoever they beheaded men or tore down their houses, so long as god permitted them to work their iniquity unpunished."[ ] de quincey has noted how such cries may make a deeper mark on the soul than any visible scene. and here again chaucer has brought his own experience, though half in jest, as a parallel to the sack of ilion and carthage or the burning of rome-- so hideous was the noise, _benedicite!_ certës, he jacke straw, and his meinie ne madë never shoutës half so shrill, when that they woulden any fleming kill ...[ ] last tragedy of all--but this time, though he may well have seen, the poet could no longer write--richard ii.'s corpse "was brought to st. paul's in london, and his face shown to the people," that they might know he was really dead.[ ] nor was there less comedy than tragedy in the london streets; the heads grinned down from the spikes of london bridge on such daily buffooneries as scarcely survive nowadays except in the amenities of cabdrivers and busmen. the hue and cry after a thief in one of these narrow streets, encumbered with show-benches and goods of every description, must at any time have been a rabelaisian farce; and still more so when it was the thief who had raised the hue and cry after a true man, and had slipped off himself in the confusion. the crowds who gather in modern towns to see a man in handcuffs led from a dingy van up the dingy court steps would have found a far keener relish in the public punishments which chaucer saw on his way to and from work; fraudulent tradesmen in the pillory, with their putrid wares burning under their noses, or drinking wry-mouthed the corrupt wine which they had palmed off on the public; scolding wives in the somewhat milder "thewe"; sometimes a penitential procession all round the city, as in the case of the quack doctor and astrologer whose story is so vividly told by the good monk of st. alban's. the impostor "was set on a horse [barebacked] with the beast's tail in his hand for a bridle, and two pots which in the vulgar tongue we call _jordans_ bound round his neck, with a whetstone in sign that he earned all this by his lies; and thus he was led round the whole city."[ ] a lay chronicler might have given us the reverse of the medal; some priest barelegged in his shirt, with a lighted taper in his hand, doing penance for his sins before the congregation of his own church. the author of "piers plowman" knew this well enough; in introducing us to his tavern company, it is a priest and a parish clerk whom he shows us cheek-by-jowl with the two least reputable ladies of the party. the whole passage deserves quoting in full as a picture of low life indeed, but one familiar enough to chaucer and his friends in their day; for it is a matter of common remark that even the distance which separated different classes in earlier days made it easier for them to mix familiarly in public. the very catalogue of this tavern company is a comedy in itself, and may well conclude our survey of common london sights. glutton, on his way to morning mass, has passed bett the brewster's open door; and her persuasive "i have good ale, gossip" has broken down all his good resolutions-- then goeth glutton in, and great oaths after. ciss the seamstress sat on the bench, wat the warrener, and his wife drunk, tim the tinker, and twain of his knaves, hick the hackneyman and hugh the needler; clarice of cock's lane, the clerk of the church, sir piers of prydie and pernel of flanders; an hayward and an hermit, the hangman of tyburn, daw the dyker, with a dozen harlots [rascals of porters and pickpurses and pilled tooth-drawers; [bald a ribiber and a ratter, a raker and his knave [lute-player, scavenger a roper and a ridingking, and rose the disher, [mercenary trooper godfrey the garlicmonger and griffin the welshman, and upholders an heap, early by the morrow [furniture-brokers give glutton with glad cheer good ale to hansel.[ ] [try [illustration: a tooth-drawer of the th century, with a wreath of past trophies over his shoulder (from ms. roy. vi. e. f. b)] chapter viii aldgate tower "for though the love of books, in a cleric, be honourable in the very nature of the case, yet it hath sorely exposed us to the adverse judgment of many folk, to whom we became an object of wonder, and were blamed at one time for greediness in that matter, or again for seeming vanity, or again, for intemperate delight in letters; yet we cared no more for their revilings than for the barking of curs, contented with his testimony alone to whom it pertaineth to try the hearts and reins.... yet perchance they would have praised and been kindly affected towards us if we had spent our time in hunting wild beasts, in playing at dice, or in courting ladies' favours."--the "philobiblon" of bp. r. de bury ( - ). even in the th century a man's house was more truly his castle in england than in any country of equal population; and chaucer was particularly fortunate in having secured a city castle for his house. the records show that such leases were commonly granted by the authorities to men of influence and good position in the city; in the black prince specially begged the mayor that thomas de kent might have cripplegate; and we have curious evidence of the keen competition for aldgate. the mayor and aldermen granted to chaucer in "the whole dwelling-house above aldgate gate, with the chambers thereon built and a certain cellar beneath the said gate, on the eastern side thereof, together with all its appurtenances, for the lifetime of the said geoffrey." there was no rent, though of course chaucer had to keep it in repair; in an earlier lease of , the tenant had paid _s._ _d._ a year besides repairs. the city promised to keep no prisoners in the tower during chaucer's tenancy,[ ] but naturally stipulated that they might take possession of their gate when necessary for the defence of the city. in , as we have already seen and shall see more fully hereafter, there was a scare of invasion so serious that the authorities can scarcely have failed to take the gates into their own hands for a while. though this need not necessarily have ended chaucer's tenancy altogether, yet he must in fact have given it up then, if not earlier; and a common council meeting held on october resolved to grant no such leases in future "by reason of divers damages that have befallen the said city, through grants made to many persons, as well of the gates and the dwelling-houses above them, as of the gardens and vacant places adjoining the walls, gates, and fosses of the said city, whereby great and divers mischiefs may readily hereafter ensue." yet _on the very next day_ (and this is our first notice of the end of chaucer's tenancy) a fresh lease of aldgate tower and house was granted to chaucer's friend richard forster by another friend of the poet's, nicholas brembre, who was then mayor. this may very likely have been a pre-arranged job among the three friends; but the flagrant violation of the law may well seem startling even to those who have realized the frequent contrasts between medieval theory and medieval practice; and after this we are quite prepared for riley's footnote, "within a very short period after this enactment was made, it came to be utterly disregarded."[ ] the whole transaction, however, shows clearly that the aldgate lodging was considered a prize in its way. that chaucer loved it, we know from one of the too rare autobiographical passages in his poems, describing his shy seclusion even more plainly than the host hints at it in the "canterbury tales." the "house of fame" is a serio-comic poem modelled vaguely on dante's "comedia," in which a golden eagle carries chaucer up to heaven, and, like beatrice, plays the part of mentor all the while. the poet, who was at first somewhat startled by the sudden rush through the air, and feared lest he might have been chosen as an unworthy successor to enoch and elias, is presently quieted by the eagle's assurance that this temporary apotheosis is his reward as the clerk of love-- love holdeth it great humbleness, and virtue eke, that thou wilt make a-night full oft thy head to ache, in thy study so thou writest and ever more of love enditest. the ruler of the gods, therefore, has taken pity on the poet's lonely life-- that is, that thou hast no tidings of lovë's folk, if they be glad, nor of nothing ellës that god made: and not only from far countree, whence no tiding cometh to thee, but of thy very neighëbores that dwellen almost at thy doors, thou hearest neither that nor this; for, when thy labour done all is, and hast y-made thy reckonings, instead of rest and newë things thou go'st home to thy house anon, and, all so dumb as any stone, thou sittest at another book till fully dazed is thy look, and livest thus as an heremite, although thy abstinence is lite.[ ] [little here we have the central figure of the aldgate chamber, but what was the background? was his room, as some will have it, such as that to which his eyes opened in the "book of the duchess"? and sooth to say my chamber was full well depainted, and with glass were all the windows well y-glazed full clear, and not one hole y-crazed, [cracked that to behold it was great joy; for wholly all the story of troy was in the glazing y-wrought thus ... and all the walls with colours fine were painted, bothë text and glose, [commentary and all the romance of the rose. my windows weren shut each one and through the glass the sunnë shone upon my bed with brightë beams.... those lines were written before the aldgate days; and the hints which can be gathered from surviving inventories and similar sources make it very improbable that the poet was lodged with anything like such outward magnificence. the storied glass and the frescoed wall were far more probably a reminiscence from windsor, or from chaucer's life with one of the royal dukes; and the furniture of the aldgate dwelling-house is likely to have resembled in quantity that which we have seen recorded of hugh le benere, and in quality the similar but more valuable stock of richard de blountesham. (riley, p. .) richard possessed bedding for three beds to the total value of fifty shillings and eightpence; his brass pot weighed sixty-seven pounds; and, over and above his pewter plates, dishes, and salt-cellars, he possessed "three silver cups, ten shillings in weight." three better cups than these, at least, stood in the chaucer cupboard; for on new year's day, , , and , the accounts of the duchy of lancaster record presents from john of gaunt to philippa chaucer of silver-gilt cups with covers. the first of these weighed thirty-one shillings, and cost nearly three pounds; the second and third were apparently rather more valuable. we must suppose, therefore, that the aldgate rooms were handsomely furnished, as a london citizen's rooms went; but we must beware here of such exaggerations as the genius of william morris has popularized. the assumption that the poet knew familiarly every book from which he quotes has long been exploded; and it is quite as unsafe to suppose that the artistic glories which he so often describes formed part of his home life. there were tapestries and stained glass in churches for every man to see, and in palaces and castles for the enjoyment of the few; but they become fairly frequent in citizens' houses only in the century after chaucer's death; and it was very easy to spend an income such as his without the aid of artistic extravagance. froissart, whose circumstances were so nearly the same, and who, though a priest, was just as little given to abstinence, confesses to having spent livres (or some £ modern english money) in twenty-five years, over and above his fat living of lestinnes. "and yet i hoard no grain in my barns, i build no churches, or clocks, or ships, or galleys, or manor-houses. i spend not my money on furnishing fine rooms.... my chronicles indeed have cost me a good seven hundred livres, at the least, and the taverners of lestinnes have had a good five hundred more."[ ] froissart's confession introduces a witty poetical plea for fresh contributions; and if chaucer had added a couple of similar stanzas to the "complaint to his empty purse," it is probable that their tenor would have been much the same: "books, and the taverner; and i've had my money's worth from both!" [illustration: . ground plan and section of the clergy-house at alfriston--a typical timber house of the th century. (for the hall, see chaucer's "miller's tale") . plan of aldgate tower as it was in chaucer's time] professor lounsbury ("studies in chaucer," chap. v.) has discoursed exhaustively, and very judicially, on chaucer's learning; he shows clearly what books the poet knew only as nodding acquaintances, and how many others he must at one time have possessed, or at least have had at hand for serious study; and it would be impertinent to go back here over the same ground. but professor lounsbury is less clear on the subject which most concerns us here--the average price of books; for the three volumes which he instances from the king's library were no doubt illuminated, and he follows devon in the obvious slip of describing the french bible as "written in the _gaelic_ language." (ii., ; the reference to devon should be p. , not .) but, at the lowest possible estimate, books were certainly an item which would have swelled any budget seriously in the th century. this was indeed grossly overstated by robertson and other writers of a century ago; but maitland's "dark ages," while correcting their exaggerations, is itself calculated to mislead in the other direction. a small bible was cheap at forty shillings, _i.e._ the equivalent of £ in modern money; so that the twenty volumes of aristotle which chaucer's clerk of oxford had at his bed's head could scarcely have failed to cost him the value of three average citizens' houses in a great town.[ ] among all the church dignitaries whose wills are recorded in bishop stafford's register at exeter ( - ) the largest library mentioned is only of fourteen volumes. the sixty testators include a dean, two archdeacons, twenty canons or prebendaries, thirteen rectors, six vicars, and eighteen layfolk, mostly rich people. the whole sixty apparently possessed only two bibles between them, and only one hundred and thirty-eight books altogether; or, omitting church service-books, only sixty; _i.e._ exactly one each on an average. thirteen of the beneficed clergy were altogether bookless, though several of them possessed the _baselard_ or dagger which church councils had forbidden in vain for centuries past; four more had only their breviary. of the laity fifteen were bookless, while three had service-books, one of these being a knight, who simply bequeathed them as part of the furniture of his private chapel. any similar collection of wills and inventories would (i believe) give the same results, which fully agree with the independent evidence of contemporary writers. bishop richard de bury (or possibly the distinguished theologian, holcot, writing in his name) speaks bitterly of the neglect of books in the th century. not only (he says) is the ardent collector ridiculed, but even education is despised, and money rules the world. laymen, who do not even care whether books lie straight or upside down, are utterly unworthy of all communion with them; the secular clergy neglect them; the monastic clergy (with honourable exceptions among the friars) pamper their bodies and leave their books amid the dust and rubbish, till they become "corrupt and abominable, breeding-grounds for mice, riddled with worm-holes." even when in use, they have a score of deadly enemies--dirty and careless readers (whose various peculiarities the good bishop describes in language of biblical directness)--children who cry for and slobber over the illuminated capitals--and careless or slovenly servants. but the deadliest of all such enemies is the priest's concubine, who finds the neglected volume half-hidden under cobwebs, and barters it for female finery. there is an obvious element of exaggeration in the good bishop's satire; but the oxford chancellor, gascoigne, a century later, speaks equally strongly of the neglect of writing and the destruction of literature in the monasteries of his time; and there is abundant official evidence to prove that our ancestors did not atone for natural disadvantages by any excessive zeal in the multiplication, use, or preservation of books.[ ] chaucer was scarcely born when the "philobiblon" was written; and already in his day there was a growing number of leisured laymen who did know the top end of a book from the bottom, and who cared to read and write something beyond money accounts. gower, who probably made money as a london merchant before he became a country squire, was also a well-read man; but systematic readers were still very rare outside the universities, and mrs. green writes, even of a later generation of english citizens, "so far as we know, no trader or burgher possessed a library."[ ] twenty-nine years after chaucer's death, the celebrated whittington did indeed found a library; yet this was placed not at the guildhall, to which he was a considerable benefactor, but in the greyfriars' convent. the poet's bookishness would therefore inevitably have made him something of a recluse, and we have no reason to tax his own description with exaggeration. [illustration: aldgate and its surroundings as reconstituted in w. newton's "london in the olden time" . st. michael's, aldgate; . blanch appleton; . st. catherine, coleman street; . northumberland house; . prior of hornchurch's lodging; . saracen's head] london has never been a silent city, but chaucer enjoyed at least one of the quietest spots in it. if (as we have every reason to suppose) the ordinance of was far from putting an end to the nuisances which it indicates, then chaucer must have heaved a sigh of relief when he had seen the custom-house locked up, and turned his back on spurrier lane. the spurriers were addicted to working after dark for nefarious ends of their own; "and further, many of the said trade are wandering about all day, without working at all at their trade; and then, when they have become drunk and frantic, they take to their work, to the annoyance of the sick and of all their neighbourhood, as well as by reason of the broils that arise between them and the strange folks who are dwelling among them. and then they blow up their fires so vigorously, that their forges begin all at once to blaze, to the great peril of themselves and of all the neighbourhood around. and then too, all the neighbours are much in dread of the sparks, which so vigorously issue forth in all directions from the mouths of the chimneys in their forges."[ ] we may trust that no such offensive handiwork was carried on round aldgate, whither the poet would arrive about five o'clock in the evening, and sit down forthwith to supper, as the sun began to slant over the open fields. we may hope, at least, that he was wont to sup at home rather than at those alluring cook-shops which alternated with wine-taverns along the river bank; and that, as he "defyed the roast" with his gascon wine, philippa sat and sipped with him from one of time-honoured lancaster's silver-gilt cups. even if we accept the most pessimistic theories of chaucer's married life, we need scarcely doubt that the pair sat often together at their open window in the twilight-- both of one mind, as married people use, quietly, quietly the evening through. the sun goes down, a common greyness silvers everything; epping forest and the hampstead heights stand dim against the afterglow. from beneath their very windows the long road stretches far into the fading landscape; men and cattle begin to straggle citywards, first slowly, and then with such haste as their weariness will permit, for the curfew begins to ring out from bow steeple.[ ] chaucer himself has painted this twilight scene in "troilus and criseyde," written during this very aldgate time. the hero watches all day long, with his friend pandarus, at one of the gates of troy, for had not criseyde pledged her word to come back on that day at latest? every creature crawling along the distant roads gives the lover fresh hopes and fresh heart-sickness; but it is sorest of all when the evening shadows leave most to the imagination-- the day go'th fast, and after that com'th eve and yet came not to troilus criseyde. he looketh forth by hedge, by tree, by greve, [grove and far his head over the wall he laid ... "have here my truth, i see her! yond she is! have up thine eyen, man! may'st thou not see?" pandarus answered, "nay, so mote i the! all wrong, by god! what say'st thou, man? where art? that i see yond is but a farë-cart." the warden of the gatës gan to call the folk which that without the gatës were, and bade them driven in their beastës all, or all the night they musten bleven there; [remain and far within the night, with many a tear, this troilus gan homeward for to ride, for well he seeth it helpeth nought t' abide. and far within the night, while the "uncunning porters" sing over their liquor or snore on their pallets, chaucer turns and returns the leaves of virgil or ovid, of dante or the "romance of the rose." does he not also, to poor philippa's disgust, "laugh full fast" to himself sometimes over that witty and ungallant book of satires which contains "of wicked wives ... more legendës and lives than be of goodë wives in the bible"? it is difficult to escape from this conviction. his "wife of bath" cites the treatises in question too fully and too well to make it probable that chaucer wrote from mere memory. remembering this probability, and the practical certainty that, like his contemporaries, chaucer needed to read aloud for the full comprehension of what he had under his eyes, we shall then find nothing unexpected in his pretty plain allusions to reprisals. sweet as honey in the mouth, his books proved sometimes bitter in the belly, like that of the apocalypse. "late to bed" suits ill with "early to rise," and the poet hints pretty plainly that an imperious and somewhat unsympathetic "awake, geoffrey!" was often the first word he heard in the morning. when the golden eagle caught the sleeping poet up to heaven-- at the last to me he spake in mannës voice, and said "awake! and be not so aghast, for shame!" and called me then by my name and, for i should the better abraid [rouse me dreamed, "awake!" to me he said right in the samë voice and steven [tone that useth one i couldë neven; [name and with that voice, sooth for to say'n my mindë came to me again; for it was goodly said to me, so it was never wont to be. "house of fame," ii., . chapter ix town and country "for never to my mind was evening yet but was far beautifuller than its day." browning "wherefore is the sun red at even? for he goeth toward hell." ("the master of oxford's catechism" (xv. cent.); "reliquiæ antiquæ," i., .) that which in chaucer's day passed for rank "sluggardy a-night" might yet be very early rising by the modern standard; and our poet, sorely as he needed philippa's shrill alarum, might still have deserved the character given to turner by one who knew his ways well, "that he had seen the sun rise oftener than all the rest of the academy put together." it is indeed startling to note how sunrise and sunset have changed places in these five hundred years. when a modern artist waxes poetical about the sunrise, a lady will frankly assure him that it is the saddest sight she has ever seen; to her it spells lassitude and reaction after a long night's dancing. chaucer and his contemporaries lived more in turner's mood: "the sun, my dear, that's god!" in the days when a tallow candle cost four times its weight in beefsteak, when wax was mainly reserved for god and his saints, and when you could only warm your hands at the risk of burning your boots and blearing your eyes, then no man could forget his strict dependence on the king of the east. the poets of the middle ages seem to have been, in general, as insensible to the melancholy beauties of sunset as to those of autumn. leslie stephen, in the first chapters of his "playground of europe," has brought a wealth of illustration and penetrating comment to show how strictly men's ideas of the picturesque are limited by their feelings of comfort; and the medieval mind was even more narrowly confined within its theological limitations. popular religion was then too often frankly dualistic; to many men, the devil was a more insistent reality than god; and none doubted that the former had special power over the wilder side of nature. the night, the mountain, and the forest were notoriously haunted; and, though many of the finest monasteries were built in the wildest scenery, this was prompted not by love of nature but by the spirit of mortification. at sülte, for instance, in the forest of hildesheim, the blessed godehard built his monastery beside a well of brackish water, haunted by a demon, "who oft-times affrighted men, women and maidens, by catching them up with him into the air." the sainted bishop exorcised not only the demon but the salts, so that "many brewers brew therefrom most excellent beer ... wherefore the bürgermeister and councillors grant yearly to our convent a hundred measures of michaelmas malt, three of which measures are equal in quantity to a herring-barrel." what appealed to the founders of the chartreuse or tintern was not the beauty of "these steep woods and lofty cliffs," but their ascetic solitude. when, by the monks' own labours and those of their servants, the fields had become fertile, so that they now found leisure to listen how "the shady valley re-echoes in spring with the sweet songs of birds," then they felt their forefathers to have been right in "noting fertile and pleasant places as a hindrance to stronger minds."[ ] after all, the earth was cursed for adam's sake, and even its apparent beauty was that of an apple of sodom. that which walther von der vogelweide sang in his repentant old age had long been a commonplace with moralists-- "the world is fair to gaze on, white and green and red, but inly foul and black of hue, and dismal as the dead." ruskin's famous passage on this subject ("m. p.," iii., , ) is, on the whole, even too favourable to the middle ages; but he fails to note two remarkable exceptions. the poet of "pearl," who probably knew wales well, describes the mountains with real pleasure; and gawin douglas anticipated burns by venturing to describe winter not only at some length but also with apparent sympathy.[ ] moreover, douglas describes a sunset in its different stages with great minuteness of detail and the most evident delight. dante does indeed once trace in far briefer words the fading of daylight from the sky; but in his two unapproachable sunsets he turns our eyes eastwards rather than westwards, as we listen to the vesper bell, or think of the last quiet rays lingering on virgil's tomb.[ ] the scenic splendour of a wild twilight seems hardly to have touched him; his soul turns to rest here, while the hardy scot is still abroad to watch the broken storm-clouds and the afterglow. and if douglas thus outranges even dante, he leaves chaucer and boccaccio far behind. the freshness and variety of the sunrises in the "decameron" is equalled only by the bald brevity with which the author despatches eventide, which he connects mainly with supper, a little dancing or music, and bed. it would be equally impossible, i believe, to find a real sunset in chaucer; criseyde's "ywis, it will be night as fast," is quite a characteristic epitaph for the dying day. on the other hand, however, the medieval sunrise is delightful in its sincerity and variety, even under the disadvantage of constant conventional repetition; and here chaucer is at his best. he may well have been too bookish to please either his neighbours or her whom richard de bury calls "a two-footed beast, more to be shunned (as we have ever taught our disciples) than the asp and the basilisk," yet no poet was ever farther removed from the bookworm. art he loved, but only next to nature-- on bookës for to read i me delight, and to them give i faith and full credence, and in mine heart have them in reverence so heartily, that there is gamë none that from my bookës maketh me to go'n but it be seldom on the holyday; save, certainly, when that the month of may is comen, and that i hear the fowlës sing, and that the flowers 'ginnen for to spring, farewell my book and my devotion![ ] not only was the may-day haunt of bishop's wood within a mile's walk of aldgate; but behind, almost under his eyes, stood the "great shaft of cornhill," the tallest of all the city maypoles, which was yearly reared at the junction of leadenhall street, lime street, and st. mary axe, and which gave its name to the church of st. andrew undershaft, whose steeple it overtopped. how it hung all year under the pentices of a neighbouring row of houses until the reformation, and what happened to it then, the reader must find in the pages of stow.[ ] these may-day festivities, which outdid even the midsummer bonfires and the christmas mummings in popularity, were a christianized survival of ancient nature-worship. when we remember the cold, the smoke, the crowding and general discomfort of winter days and nights in those picturesque timber houses; when we consider that even in castles and manor-houses men's lives differed from this less in quality than in degree; when we try to imagine especially the monotony of woman's life under these conditions, doubly bound as she was to the housework and to the eternal spinning-wheel or embroidery-frame, with scarcely any interruptions but the morning mass and gossip with a few neighbours--only then can we even dimly realize what spring and may-day meant. there was no chance of forgetting, in those days, how directly the brown earth is our foster-mother. men who had fed on salt meat for three or four months, while even the narrow choice of autumn vegetables had long failed almost altogether, and a few shrivelled apples were alone left of last year's fruit--in that position, men watched the first green buds with the eagerness of a convalescent; and the riot out of doors was proportionate to the constraint of home life. those antiquaries have recorded only half the truth who wrote regretfully of these dying sports under the growing severity of puritanism, and they forgot that puritanism itself was a too successful attempt to realize a thoroughly medieval ideal. fénelon broke with a tradition of at least four centuries when he protested against the repression of country dances in the so-called interests of religion.[ ] it would be difficult to find a single great preacher or moralist of the later middle ages who has a frank word to say in favour of popular dances and similar public merry-makings. even the parish clergy took part in them only by disobeying the decrees of synods and councils, which they disregarded just as they disregarded similar attempts to regulate their dress, their earnings, and their relations with women. much excuse can indeed be found for this intolerance in the roughness and licence of medieval popular revels. not only the church, but even the civic authorities found themselves obliged to regulate the disorders common at london weddings, while italian town councils attempted to put down the practice of throwing on these occasions snow, sawdust, and street-sweepings, which sometimes did duty for the modern rice and old shoes; and members of the third order of st. francis were strictly forbidden to attend either weddings or dances.[ ] these and other similar considerations, which the reader will supply for himself, explain the otherwise inexplicable severity of all rules for female deportment in the streets. "if any man speak to thee," writes the good wife for her daughter, "swiftly thou him greet; let him go by the way"; and again-- "go not to the wrestling, nor to shooting at the cock as it were a strumpet, or a giggëlot, stay at home, daughter." "when thou goest into town or to church," says the author of the "ménagier de paris" to his young wife, "walk with thine head high, thine eyelids lowered and fixed on the ground at four fathoms distance straight in front of thee, without looking or glancing sideways at either man or woman to the right hand or the left, nor looking upwards." even chaucer tells us of his virginia-- she hath full oftentimës sick her feigned, for that she wouldë flee the companye where likely was to treaten of follye-- as is at feastës, revels, and at dances, that be occasions of dalliances.[ ] these, of course, were exaggerations bred of a general roughness beyond all modern experience. even christmas mumming was treated as an objectionable practice in london; as early as we find the first of a series of christmastide proclamations "that no one shall go in the streets of the city, or suburbs thereof, with visor or mask ... under penalty of imprisonment." similarly severe measures were threatened against football in the streets, against the game of "taking off the hoods of people, or laying hands on them," and against "hocking" or extorting violent contributions from passers-by on the third monday or tuesday after easter. but the very frequency of the prohibitions is suggestive of their inefficiency; and in the city authorities were still despairingly "charging on the king's behalf and his city, that no man or person ... during this holy time of christmas be so hardy in any wise to walk by night in any manner mumming plays, interludes, or any other disguisings with any feigned beards, painted visors, deformed or coloured visages in any wise, upon pain of imprisonment of their bodies and making fine after the discretion of the mayor and aldermen."[ ] much of this mumming was not only pagan in its origin but still in its essence definitely anti-ecclesiastical. when, as was constantly the case, the clergy joined in the revels, this was a more or less conscious protest against the puritan and ascetic ideal of their profession. the rule of life for benedictine nuns, to which even the poor clares were subjected after a very brief career of more apostolic liberty, cannot be read in modern times without a shudder of pity. not only did the authorities attempt to suppress all natural enjoyment of life--even madame eglantyne's lapdogs were definitely contraband--but the girls were trammelled at every turn with the minutely ingenious and degrading precautions of an oriental harem. that was the theory, the ideal; yet in fact these convent churches provided a common theatre, if not the commonest, for the riotous and often obscene licence of the feast of fools. to understand the wilder side of medieval life, it is absolutely necessary to bear in mind the pitiless and unreal "other-worldliness" of the ascetic ideal; just as we can best explain certain of chaucer's least edifying tales by referring, on the other hand, to the almost idolatrous exaggerations of his "a. b. c." [illustration: medieval mummers. (from strutt's "sports and pastimes")] but, however he may have revelled with the rest in his wilder youth, the elvish and retiring poet of the "canterbury tales" mentions the sports of the townsfolk only with gentle irony. "merry absolon," the parish clerk, who played so prominent a part in street plays, who could dance so well "after the school of oxenford ... and with his leggës casten to and fro," and who was at all points such a perfect beau of the 'prentice class to which he essentially belonged--all these small perfections are enumerated only that we may plumb more accurately the depths to which he is brought by woman's guile. the may-dance was probably as external to chaucer as the florentine carnival to browning. while a thousand absolons were casting to and fro with their legs, in company with a thousand like-minded giggëlots, around the great shaft of cornhill, chaucer had slipped out into the country. many other townsfolk came out into the fields--young men and maidens, old men and children--but chaucer tells us how he knelt by himself, worshipping the daisy as it opened to the sun-- upon the smallë softë sweetë grass, that was with flowrës sweet embroidered all. at another time we listen with him to the leaves rustling in undertone with the birds-- a wind, so small it scarcely might be less, made in the leavës green a noisë soft, accordant to the fowlës' song aloft. or watch the queen of flowers blushing in the sun-- right as the freshë, reddë rosë new against the summer sunnë coloured is! but for the daisy he has a love so tender, so intimate, that it is difficult not to suspect under the flower some unknown marguerite of flesh and blood-- ... of all the flowers in the mead then love i most these flowers white and red such as men callen daisies in our town. to them i have so great affectioun, as i said erst, when comen is the may, that in my bed there dawneth me no day but i am up and walking in the mead, to see this flower against the sunnë spread; ... as she that is of allë flowers flower, fulfillèd of all virtue and honour, and ever y-like fair and fresh of hue. and i love it, and ever y-like new, and ever shall, till that mine heartë die.... i fell asleep; within an hour or two me dreamèd how i lay in the meadow tho [then to see this flower that i love so and dread; and from afar came walking in the mead the god of love, and in his hand a queen, and she was clad in royal habit green; a fret of gold she haddë next her hair, and upon that a whitë crown she bare with fleurons smallë, and i shall not lie, for all the world right as a daÿsye y-crowned is with whitë leavës lite, so were the fleurons of her coroune white; for of one pearlë, fine, oriental her whitë coroune was y-maked all. pictures like these, in their directness and simplicity, show more loving nature-knowledge than pages of word-painting; and, if they are not only essentially decorative but even somewhat conventional, those are qualities almost inseparable from the art of the time. it is less strange that chaucer's sunrises should bear a certain resemblance to other sunrises, than that his men and women should be so strikingly individual. yet, even so, compare two or three of his sunrises together, and see how great is their variety in uniformity. take, for instance, "canterbury tales," a., , , and f., ; or, again, a., and "book of duchess," , where chaucer describes nature and art in one breath, and each heightens the effect of the other. with all his love of palaces and walled gardens, though he revels in feudal magnificence and glow of colour and elaboration of form, he is already thoroughly modern in his love of common things.[ ] here he has no equal until wordsworth; it has been truly remarked that he is one of the few poets whom wordsworth constantly studied, and one of the very few to whom he felt and confessed inferiority. chaucer's triumph of artistic simplicity is the nun's priest's tale. the old woman, her daughter, their smoky cottage and tiny garden; the hens bathing in the dust while their lord and master preens himself in the sun; the commotion when the fox runs away with chanticleer--all these things are described in truly virgilian sympathy with modest country life. what poet before him has made us feel how glorious a part of god's creation is even a barn-door cock? his voice was merrier than the merry orgon on massë-days that in the churchë go'n ... his comb was redder than the fine coral, embattled as it were a castle wall; his bill was black, and like the jet it shone, like azure were his leggës and his toen; his nailës whiter than the lily flower, and like the burnished gold was his colour! nothing but chaucer's directness of observation and truth of colouring could have kept his work as fresh as it is. like memling and the van eycks, he has all the reverence of the centuries with all the gloss of youth. the peculiar charm of medieval art is its youthfulness and freshness; and no poet is richer in those qualities than he. in this, of course, he reflects his environment. although london was already becoming in a manner cockneyfied; although she already imported sea-coal from newcastle, and her purveyors scoured half england for food, and her cattle sometimes came from as far as nottingham, and most of her bread was baked at stratford, yet she still bore many traces of the ruralism which so astonishes the modern student in medieval city life. even towns like oxford and cambridge were rather collections of agriculturalists co-operating for trade and protection than a conglomeration of citizens in the modern sense; and the university long vacation is a survival from the days when students helped in the hay and corn harvests. and, greatly as london was already congested in comparison with other english cities, there was as yet no real divorce between town and country. her population of about , was nearly four times as great as that of any other city in the kingdom; but, even in the most crowded quarters, the mass of buildings was not yet sufficient to disguise the natural features of the site. the streets mounted visibly from the river and fleet brook to the centre of the city. st. paul's was plainly set on a hill, and nobody could fail to see the slope from the village of holborn down the present gray's inn lane, up which (it has lately been argued) boadicea's chariot once led the charge against the roman legions. thames, though even the medieval palate found its water drinkable only "in parts," still ran at low tide over native shingle and mud; the southwark shore was green with trees; not only monasteries but often private houses had their gardens, and surviving records mention fruit trees as a matter of course.[ ] outside, there was just a sprinkling of houses for a hundred yards or so beyond each gate, and then an ordinary english rural landscape, rather wild and wooded, indeed, for modern england, but dotted with villages and church towers. knightsbridge, in those days, was a distant suburb to which most of the slaughter-houses were banished; and the districts of st. james and st. giles, so different in their later social conditions, both sprang up round leper hospitals in open country. fitzstephen, writing in the days of henry ii., describes westminster as two miles from the walls, "but yet conjoined with a continuous suburb. on all sides," he continues, "without the houses of the suburb, are the citizens' gardens and orchards, planted with trees, both large, sightly, and adjoining together. on the north side are pastures and plain meadows, with brooks running through them turning watermills with a pleasant noise. not far off is a great forest, a well-wooded chase, having good covert for harts, bucks, does, boars, and wild bulls. the cornfields are not of a hungry sandy mould, but as the fruitful fields of asia, yielding plentiful increase and filling the barns with corn. there are near london, on the north side, especial wells in the suburbs, sweet, wholesome, and clear. amongst which holy well, clerkenwell, and st. clement's well are most famous, and most frequented by scholars and youths of the city in summer evenings, when they walk forth to take the air." no doubt in chaucer's time the suburbs had grown a little, but not much; it is doubtful whether the population of england was greater in than in a.d. eastward from his aldgate lodgings the eye stretched over the woody flats bordering the thames. northwards, beyond the bishop's wood in stepney parish and the fen which stretched up the lea valley to tottenham, rose the "great forest" of epping. in a more westerly direction chaucer might have seen a corner of the moor which gave its name to one of the london gates, and which too often became a dreary swamp for lack of drainage; and, above and beyond, the heaths of highgate and hampstead. riley's "memorials" contain frequent mention of gardens outside the gates; it was one of these, "a little herber[ ] that i have," in which chaucer laid the scene of his "legend of good women." these gardens seem to have made a fairly continuous circle round the walls. the richest were towards the west, and made an unbroken strip of embroidery from ludgate to westminster. nearer home, however, lincoln's inn fields, and saffron hill, and vine street, holborn, carry us back to the earl of lincoln's twenty carefully-tilled acres of herbs, roses, and orchard-land, or to the still more elaborate paradise belonging to the bishop and monks of ely, whose vineyard and rosary and fields of saffron-crocus stretched down the slopes of that pleasant little old-bourn which trickled into fleet brook. holborn was then simply the nearest and most suburban of a constellation of villages which clustered round the great city; and, if the reader would picture to himself the open country beyond, let him take for his text that sentence in which becket's chaplain enumerates the rights of chase enjoyed by the city. "many citizens," writes fitzstephen, "do delight themselves in hawks and hounds; for they have liberty of hunting in middlesex, hertfordshire, all chiltern, and in kent to the water of cray." the city huntsman was, in those days, a salaried official of some dignity. so chaucer, who had at one gate of his house the great city, was on the other side free of such green english fields and lanes as have inspired a company of nature-poets unsurpassed in any language. may we not hope that his companions in the "little herber," or on his wider excursions, were sometimes "the moral gower" or "the philosophical strode?" and may we not picture them dining in some country inn, like izaak walton and his contemplative fellow-citizens? chaucer's friend was probably the ralph strode of merton college, a distinguished philosopher and anti-wycliffite controversialist; and it is noteworthy that a ralph strode was also a lawyer and common serjeant to the city, where he frequently acted as public prosecutor, and that he received for his services a grant of the house over aldersgate in the year after chaucer had entered into aldgate.[ ] there is no obvious reason to dissociate the city lawyer from the oxford scholar, who has also been suggested with some probability as the author of "pearl" and other th-century poems second only to chaucer's. however that may be, "the philosophical strode" must unquestionably have influenced the poet who dedicated to him his "troilus," and we may read an echo of their converse in chaucer's own reflections at the end of that poem on love and thereafter-- o youngë freshë folkës, he or she, in which that love upgroweth with your age, repair ye home from worldly vanitie, and of your heart upcast ye the visage to that same god that after his image you made; and think that all is but a fair, this world, that passeth soon as flowers fair. but we are wandering, perhaps, too far into the realm of mere suppositions. with or without philosophical converse in the fields, the long day wanes at last; and now-- when that the sun out of the south 'gan west and that this flower 'gan close, and go to rest, for darkness of the night, the which she dread, home to mine house full swiftly i me sped to go to rest, and early for to rise. the curfew is ringing again from bow steeple; the throng of citizens grows thicker as they near the gates; inside, the street echoes still with the laughter of apprentices and maids, while sounds of still more uproarious revelry come from the wide tavern doors. soon, however, in half an hour or so, the streets will be empty; the drinkers will huddle with closed doors round the embers in the hall; and our poet, as he lays his head on the pillow, may well repeat to himself those words of fitzstephen, which he must surely have read: "the only pests of london are the immoderate drinking of fools, and the frequency of fires." chapter x the laws of london "del un marchant au jour present l'en parle molt communement, il ad noun triche plein de guile, qe pour sercher del orient jusques au fin del occident, n'y ad cité ne bonne vile u triche son avoir ne pile. triche en bourdeaux, triche en civile, triche en paris achat et vent; triche ad ses niefs et sa famile, et du richesce plus nobile triche ad disz foitz plus q'autre gent. triche a florence et a venise ad son recet et sa franchise, si ad a brugges et a gant; a son agard auci s'est mise la noble cité sur tamise, la quelle brutus fuist fondant; mais triche la vait confondant." gower, "mirour," ff. but the picturesque side of things was only the smaller half of chaucer's life, as it is of ours. we must not be more royalist than the king, or claim more for chaucer and his england than he himself would ever have dreamed of claiming. that which seems most beautiful and romantic to us was not necessarily so five hundred years ago. the literature of chivalry, for instance, seems to have touched chaucer comparatively little: he scarcely mentions it but in more or less open derision. again, while ruskin and william morris seem at times almost tempted to wish themselves back to the th century for the sake of its gothic architecture, chaucer in his retrospective mood is not ashamed to yearn for a golden age as yet uncorrupted by architects of any description whatever-- no trumpës for the warrës folk ne knew, nor towers high and wallës round or square ... yet were no palace chambers, nor no halls; in cavës and in woodës soft and sweet slepten this blessed folk withouten walls.[ ] no doubt he would as little have chosen seriously to go back to hips and haws as morris would seriously have wished to live in the middle ages. but his words may warn us against over-estimating the picturesque side of his age. the most important is commonly what goes on under the surface; and this was eminently true of chaucer's native london. when we look closely into the social and political ideals of those motley figures which thronged the streets, we may see there our own modern liberties in the making, and note once more how slowly, yet how surely, the mills of god grind. it was once as hard for a community of a few thousand souls to govern itself as it is now for a nation; and parts of what seem to us the very foundations of civilized society were formerly as uncertain and tentative as imperial federation or the international peace congress. the ordinary english town after the conquest was originally simply part of a feudal estate: a rather denser aggregation than the ordinary village, and therefore rather more conscious of solidarity and power. the householders, by dint of holding more and more together, became increasingly capable of driving collective bargains, and of concentrating their numerical force upon any point at issue. they thus throve better than the isolated peasant; and their growing prosperity made them able to pay heavier dues to their feudal lords, who thus saw a prospect of immediate pecuniary gain in selling fresh liberties to the citizens. this process, which was still in its earlier stages in many towns during chaucer's lifetime, was, however, already far advanced in london, which claimed over other cities a superiority symbolized by the legend of its origin: brut, the son of Æneas, had founded it, and named it troynovant, or new troy. but the city had far more tangible claims to supremacy than this: it had obtained from henry i.--earlier by nearly a century than any other--the right of electing its own sheriff and justiciar; and from a still earlier time than this it had been almost as important politically as it is now. mr. loftie, whose "london" in the "historic towns" series gives so clear a view of its political development, shows us the city holding out against canute long after the rest of the kingdom had been conquered; and making, even after hastings, such terms with the conqueror as secured to the citizens their traditional liberties. even thus early, the city fully exemplified the dignity and enduring power of commerce and industry in an age of undisguised physical force. its foreign trade was considerable, and foreign settlers numerous. "already there was trade with the rhine and the zuyder zee; and norman ships, so far back as the days of Æthelred and even of his father, had brought the wines of the south to london. the [german] emperor's men had already established their stafelhof, or steelyard, and traded under jealous rules and almost monastic discipline, but with such money that to this day 'sterling' stands beside 'real' as an adjective, for the royal credit was not better than that of the easterling. some germans and danes who did not belong to the 'gildhalda theutonicorum,' as it was called in the th century, settled in the city beside the normans of the conquest, the frenchmen mentioned in the charter, and the old english stock of law-worthy citizens."[ ] the example of generosity set by william was followed more or less closely by all his successors except matilda, who offended the citizens by suppressing their chief liberties, and owed her final failure mainly to the steady support which they therefore gave to stephen. the prosperity of london reacted on many other cities, which were gradually enabled to buy themselves charters after her model. writing before a.d., fitzstephen boasted that london traded "with every nation under heaven"; and matthew of westminster, a generation later, gives an even more glowing picture of english commerce; "could the ships of tharshish" (he exclaims), "so extolled in holy scripture, be compared with thine?" our fortunate insularity, the happy balance of power between king and barons, and sometimes the wisdom of particular sovereigns, had in fact enabled commerce to thrive so steadily that it was rapidly becoming a great political power. michelet has painted with some characteristic exaggeration of colour, but most truly in the main, the contrast between english and french commerce in the half-century preceding chaucer's birth. french sovereigns failed to establish any uniform system of weights and measures, and were themselves responsible for constant tampering with the coinage; they discouraged the lombards, interfered with the great fairs, placed heavy duties on all goods to be bought or sold, and at one time even formally forbade "all trade with flanders, genoa, italy, and provence." all roads and waterways were subject to heavy tolls; "robbed like a merchant" became a proverbial saying. meanwhile, our own edward i., though he banished the jews and allowed his commercial policy to fluctuate sadly, if judged by a purely modern standard, yet did much to encourage foreign trade. edward iii. did so consistently; he may, as hallam says, almost be called the father of english commerce; we have seen how he sent chaucer's father to negotiate with the merchants of cologne, and our poet himself with those of genoa. when, in , charles the wise proclaimed freedom of trade for all english merchants in france, this was only one of the many points on which he paid to english methods the compliment of close imitation. but, though foreigners were welcome to the english government, it was not always so with the english people. chaucer's grandfather, in , was one of sixteen citizens whose arrest the king commanded on account of "certain outrages and despites" done to the gascon merchants. the citizens of london specially resented the policy by which edward iii. took foreign traders under his special protection, and absolved them from their share of the city taxes in consideration of the tribute which they paid directly to him.[ ] the flemings, as we have seen, were massacred wholesale in the rising of ; and the hanse merchants were saved from the same fate only by the strong stone walls of their steelyard. but the most consistently unpopular of these strangers, and the most prosperous, were the lombards, a designation which included most italian merchants trading abroad. these, since the expulsion of the jews, had enjoyed almost a monopoly of usury--a hateful term, which, in the middle ages, covered not only legitimate banking, but many other financial operations innocent in themselves and really beneficial to the community.[ ] usury, though very familiar to the papal court, was fiercely condemned by the canon law, which would have rendered impossible all commerce on a large scale, but for the ingrained inconsistency of human nature. "he who taketh usury goeth to hell, and he who taketh none, liveth on the verge of beggary"; so wrote an italian contemporary of chaucer's. but there was always here and there a bolder sinner who frankly accepted his chance of damnation, and who would point to his big belly and fat cheeks with a scoffing "see how the priest's curses shrivel me up!" preachers might indeed urge that, if the eyes of such an one had been opened, he would have seen how "god had in fact fattened him for everlasting death, like a pig fed up for slaughter"; but there remained many possibilities of evasion. for one open rebel, there were hundreds who quietly compounded with the clergy for their ill-gotten gains. "usurers' bodies were once buried in the field or in a garden; now they are interred in front of the high altar in churches"; so writes a great franciscan preacher. but the friars themselves soon became the worst offenders. lady meed in "piers plowman"--the incarnation of illicit gain--has scarcely come up to london when-- "then came there a confessor, coped as a friar ... then he absolved her soon, and sithen he said 'we have a window a-working, will cost us full high; wouldst thou glaze that gable, and grave therein thy name, sure should thy soul be heaven to have.'"[ ] in other words, the canon law practically compelled the taker of interest to become a villain, as the old penal laws encouraged the thief to commit murder. gower, if we make a little obvious allowance for a satirist's rhetoric, will show us how ordinary citizens regarded the usurious lombards.[ ] "they claim to dwell in our land as freely, and with as warm a welcome, as if they had been born and bred amongst us.... but they meditate in their heart how to rob our silver and gold." they change (he says) their chaff for our corn; they sweep in our good sterling coin so that there is little left in the country. "to-day i see such lombards come [to london] as menials in mean attire; and before a year is past, by dint of deceit and intrigue, they dress more nobly than the burgesses of our city.... it is great shame that our lords, who ought to keep our laws, should treat our merchants as serfs, and quietly free the hands of strange folk to rob us. but covetise hath dominion over all things: for bribery makes friends and brings success: that is the custom in my country." nor "in my country" only, but in other lands too; for the best-known firm of merchants now-a-days is trick and co. "seek from east to the going out of the west, there is no city or good town where trick does not rob to enrich himself. trick at bordeaux, trick at seville, trick at paris buys and sells; trick has his ships and servants, and of the noblest riches trick has ten times more than other folk. at florence and venice, trick has his fortress and freedom of trade; so he has at bruges and ghent; under his care too has the noble city on the thames put herself, which brutus founded, but which trick is on the way to confound...." why not, indeed, in an age in which all the bonds of society are loosed? "one [merchant] told me the other day how, to his mind, that man would have wrought folly who, being able to get the delights of this life, should pass them by: for after this life is over, no man knoweth for truth which way or by what path we go. thus do the merchants of our present days dispute and say and answer for the most part." much of gower's complaint about trick might be equally truly applied to any age or community; but much was due also to the growth of large and complicated money transactions, involving considerable speculation on credit. gower complains that merchants talked of "many thousands" where their fathers had talked of "scores" or "hundreds"; and he, like chaucer, describes the dignified trader as affecting considerable outward show to disguise the insecurity of his financial position.[ ] edward iii. set here a royal example by failing for a million florins, or more than £ , , of modern money, and thus ruining two of the greatest european banking firms, the bardi and peruzzi of florence. undeterred by similar risks, the de la poles of hull undertook to finance the king, and became the first family of great merchant-princes in england. operations such as these opened a new world of possibilities for commerce--vast stakes on the table, and vast prizes to the winners. moreover, city politics grew complicated in proportion with city finance. the mass of existing documents shows a continual extension of the londoner's civic authorities, until the townsfolk were trammeled by a network of byelaws not indeed so elaborate as those of a modern city, but incomparably more hampering and vexatious. on this subject, which is of capital importance for the comprehension of life in chaucer's time, it would be difficult on the whole to put the facts more clearly than they have already been put by riley on pp. cix. ff. of his introduction to the "liber albus." "such is a sketch of some few of the leading features of social life within the walls of london in the th and th centuries. the good old times, whenever else they may have existed, assuredly are not to be looked for in days like these. and yet these were not lawless days; on the contrary, owing in part to the restless spirit of interference which seems to have actuated the lawmakers, and partly to the low and disparaging estimate evidently set by them upon the minds and dispositions of their fellow-men, these were times, the great evil of which was a superfluity of laws both national and local, worse than needless; laws which, while unfortunately they created or protected comparatively few real valuable rights, gave birth to many and grievous wrongs. that the favoured and so-called _free_ citizen of london even--despite the extensive privileges in reference to trade which he enjoyed--was in possession of more than the faintest shadow of liberty, can hardly be alleged, if we only call to mind the substance of the pages just submitted to the reader's notice, filled as they are with enactments and ordinances, arbitrary, illiberal, and oppressive: laws, for example, which compelled each citizen,[ ] whether he would or no, to be bail and surety for a neighbour's good behaviour, over whom perhaps it was impossible for him to exercise the slightest control; laws which forbade him to make his market for the day until the purveyors for the king and the great lords of the land had stripped the stalls of all that was choicest and best; laws which forbade him to pass the city walls for the purpose even of meeting his own purchased goods; laws which bound him to deal with certain persons or communities only, or within the precincts only of certain localities; laws which dictated, under severe penalties, what sums, and no more, he was to pay to his servants and artisans; laws which drove his dog out of the streets, while they permitted 'genteel dogs' to roam at large: nay, even more than this, laws which subjected him to domiciliary visits from the city officials on various pleas and pretexts; which compelled him to carry on a trade under heavy penalties, irrespective of the question whether or not it was at his loss; and which occasionally went so far as to lay down rules, at what hours he was to walk in the streets, and incidentally, what he was to eat and what to drink. viewed individually, laws and ordinances such as these may seem, perhaps, of but trifling moment; but 'trifles make life,' the poet says, and to have lived fettered by numbers of restrictions like these, must have rendered life irksome in the extreme to a sensitive man, and a burden hard to be borne. every dark picture, however, has its reverse, and in the legislation even of these gloomy days there are one or two meritorious features to be traced. the labourer, no doubt, so far as disposing of his labour at his own time and option was concerned, was too often treated little better than a slave; but, on the other hand, the price of bread taken into consideration, the wages of his labour appear--at times, at least--to have been regulated on a very fair and liberal scale. the determination, too, steadily evinced by the civic authorities, that every trader should really sell what he professed to sell, and that the poor, whatever their other grievances, should be protected, in their dealings, against the artifices of adulteration, deficient measures, and short weight, is another feature that commands our approval. greatly deserving, too, of commendation is the pride that was evidently felt by the londoners of these times in the purity of the waters of their much-loved thames, and the carefulness with which the civic authorities, in conjunction with the court, took every possible precaution to preserve its banks from encroachment and its stream from pollution. the fondness, too, of the citizens of london in former times for conduits and public fountains, though based, perhaps, upon absolute necessity, to some extent, is a feature that we miss in their representatives at the present day." the words about the purity of the thames need some modification in the light of such incidents as those recorded (for instance) in mr. sharpe's calendar of "letter book" g, pp. xxvii. ff.;[ ] but the most serious gap in riley's picture is the absence of any clear allusion to the almost incredible gulfs which are frequently to be found between th-century theory and practice. we have already seen how openly the city officials broke their own brand-new resolution about lodgings over the city gates; and the surviving records of all medieval cities tell the same tale, for which we might indeed be prepared by the wearisome iteration with which we find the same enactments re-enacted again and again, as if they had never been thought of before. as dean colet said, when the world of the middle ages was at its last gasp, it was not new laws that england needed, but a new spirit of justice in enforcing the old laws. seldom, indeed, had these become an absolute dead letter--we find them invoked at times where we should least have expected it--but at the very best they were enforced with a barefaced partiality which cannot be paralleled in modern civilized countries even under the most unfavourable circumstances. from norwich, one of the greatest towns in the kingdom, and certainly not one of the worst governed, we have fortunately surviving a series of leet court rolls, which have been admirably edited by mr. hudson for the selden society, and commented on more briefly in his "records of the city of norwich."[ ] he shows that, whereas the breach of certain civic regulations should nominally have been punished by a fine for the first offence, pillory for the second, and expulsion for the third, yet in fact there was no pretence, in an ordinary way, of taking the law literally. "the price of ale was fixed according to the price of wheat. almost every housewife of the leading families brewed ale and sold it to her neighbours, and invariably charged more than the fixed price. the authorities evidently expected and wished this course to be taken, for these ladies were regularly presented and amerced every year for the same offence, paid their amercements and went away to go through the same process in the future as in the past. much the same course was pursued by other trades and occupations. fishmongers, tanners, poulterers, cooks, etc., are fined wholesale year after year for breaking every by-law that concerned their business. in short, instead of a trader (as now) taking out a license to do his business on certain conditions which he is expected to keep, he was bound by conditions which he was expected to break and afterwards fined for the breach. the same financial result was attained or aimed at by a different method." moreover, the fines themselves were collected with the strangest irregularity. "some are excused by the bailiffs without reason assigned; some 'at the instance' of certain great people wishing to do a good turn for a friend. again, others make a bargain with the collector, thus expressed, as for instance, 'john de swaffham is not in tithing. amercement _s._ he paid _d._, the rest is excused. he is quit.' sometimes an entry is marked 'vad,' i.e. _vadiat_, or _vadiatur_, 'he gives a pledge,' or, 'it is pledged.' the collector had seized a jug, or basin, or chair. but by far the larger number of entries are marked 'd,' i.e. _debet_, 'he owes it.' the collector had got nothing. at the end of each (great) leet is a collector's account of moneys received and paid in to the bailiffs or the city chamberlain in three or four or more payments. by drawing out a balance sheet for the whole city in this year it appears that the total amount of all the amercements entered is £ _s._ _d._ this is equivalent to more than £ at the present value of money. but all that the collectors can account for, even after easter, is £ _s._ _d._ it is clear that however efficient the system was in preventing offences from passing undetected, it did not do much to deter offenders from repeating them." the enactments, of course, were still there on the city statute-book; and, if an example needed to be made of any specially obnoxious tradesman, they might sometimes be enforced in all their theoretical rigour. in general, however, the severity of the written law was scarcely realized but by men with very tender consciences or with very few friends. forestalling in the market was one of the most heinous of civic offences; yet, while john doe was dutifully paying his morning orisons, richard roe was "out at cockcrow to buy privately when the citizens were at mass, so that by six o'clock, there was nothing left in the market for the good folk of the town."[ ] not less heinous was the selling of putrid victuals. here we do indeed find the theoretical horrors of the pillory inflicted in all their rigour, but not once a year among the , people of london.[ ] these cannot have been the only offenders, or even an appreciable fraction of them; for chaucer's sarcasm as to the unwholesome fare provided at cook-shops is borne out even more emphatically by others. cardinal jacques de vitry tells how a customer once pleaded for a reduction in price "because i have bought no flesh but at your shop for these last seven years." "what!" replied the cook, "for so long a time, and you are yet alive!" the author of "piers plowman" exhorts mayors to apply the pillory more strictly to-- "brewsters and bakers, butchers and cooks; for these are men on this mould that most harm worken to the poor people that piece-meal buyen: for they poison the people privily and oft ..." a lurid commentary on these lines may be found in a presentment of the twelve jurors at the norwich leet-court. "all the men of sprowston sell sausages and puddings and knowingly buy measly pigs; and they sell in norwich market the aforesaid sausages and pigs, unfit for human bodies."[ ] this, of course, is only one side of city life: the side of which we catch glimpses nowadays when the veil is lifted at chicago. rudimentary and partial as city justice still was in chaucer's days, overstrained in theory and weak-kneed in practice, it was yet a part of real self-government and of real apprenticeship to higher things in politics, not only civic but national. the constitution of the city was frankly oligarchical, yet the mere fact that the citizens should have a constitution of their own, which they often had to defend against encroachments by brotherly co-operation, by heavy sacrifices of money, or even at the risk of bloodshed--this in itself was the thin end of the democratic wedge in national politics. rich merchants might, indeed, domineer over their fellow-citizens by naked tyranny and sheer weight of money, which (as th-century writers assert in even less qualified terms than those of our own day) controls all things under the sun. but it was these same men who, side by side with their brothers, the country squires,[ ] successfully asserted in parliament the power of the purse, and the right of asking even the king how he meant to spend the nation's money, before they voted it for his use. moreover, it was due enormously to london and the great cities that our national liberties were safeguarded from the foreign invader. the considerable advance in national wealth between and was partly due to our success in war. while english cities multiplied, french cities had even in many cases to surrender into their king's hands those liberties for which they were now too poor to render the correspondent services. yet, even before the first blow had been struck, those wars were already half-won by english commerce. "the secret of the battles of crécy and poitiers lies in the merchants' counting-houses of london, bordeaux, and bruges."[ ] apart from those habits and qualities which successful commerce implies, the amount of direct supplies in men and money contributed by the english towns during edward's wars can only be fully realized by reading dr. sharpe's admirable prefaces to his "calendars of letter-books." but a single instance is brief and striking enough to be quoted here. our crushing defeat by the combined french and spanish navies off la rochelle in lost us the command of the sea until our victory at cadzand in ; and chaucer's merchant rightly voiced the crying need of english commerce during that time-- he would the sea were kept, for any thing, betwixtë middelburgh and orëwell. during those fifteen years the ports of the south coast were constantly harried by privateers. the isle of wight was taken and plundered. the prior of lewes, heading a hastily raised force against the invaders, was taken prisoner at rottingdean; and such efforts to clear the seas as were made on our part were not public, but merely civic, or even private. the men of winchelsea and rye burned a couple of norman ports, after plundering the very churches; and the sailors of portsmouth and dartmouth collected a fleet which for a short while swept the channel. this may be the reason why chaucer, writing two years later, makes his bold shipman hail from dartmouth. but, seven years before this raid, a single london merchant had done still more. a scottish pirate named mercer, reinforced by french and spanish ships, infested the north sea until "god raised up against him one of the citizens of troynovant." "john philpot, citizen of london, a man of great wit, wealth and power, narrowly considering the default or treachery of the duke of lancaster and the other lords who ought to have defended the realm, and pitying his oppressed countrymen, hired with his own money a thousand armed men.... and it came to pass that the almighty, who ever helpeth pious vows, gave success to him and his, so that his men presently took the said mercer, with all that he had taken by force from scarborough, and fifteen more spanish ships laden with much riches. whereat the whole people exulted ... and now john philpot alone was praised in all men's mouths and held in admiration, while they spake opprobriously and with bitter blame of our princes and the host which had long ago been raised, as is the wont of the common herd in their changing moods."[ ] walsingham's final moral here is, after all, that of chaucer: "o stormy people, unsad and ever untrue, aye indiscreet, and changing as a vane!"[ ] english writers seem, indeed, to speak of their countrymen as especially fickle and inconstant; and there was no doubt more reason for the charge in those days, when men in general were far more swayed by impulse and less by reflexion--when indeed the fundamental insecurity of the social and political fabric was such as to thwart even the ripest reflexion at every turn. it is striking how short-lived were the london trading families until after chaucer's time: no such succession as the rothschilds and barings was as yet possible. moreover, in civic as in national politics, it was still possible to lose one's head for the crime of having shown too much zeal in a losing cause, as the career of chaucer's colleague brembre may testify.[ ] walsingham loses no opportunity of jeering at the inconstancy of the london citizens; he portrays their panic during the invasion scare of , and during the king's suppression of their liberties in - , with all the superiority of a monk whose own skin was safe enough in the cloister of st. alban's. on this latter occasion the citizens had to pay richard the enormous fine of £ , --or, according to a malmesbury monk, £ , --for the restoration of their privileges; and even then they were glad to welcome him on his first gracious visit "as an angel of god."[ ] but they bided their time, and richard was to learn, like other sovereigns before and since, how heavy a sword the londoners could throw into the political scale. froissart noted that "they ever have been, are, and will be so long as the city stands, the most powerful of all england"; that what london thought was also what england thought; and that even a king might find he had gained but a pyrrhic victory over them. "for where the men of london are at accord and fully agreed, no man dare gainsay them. they are of more weight than all the rest of england, nor dare any man drive them to bay, for they are most mighty in wealth and in men."[ ] however little chaucer may have interested himself in his neighbours, here were things which no poet could help seeing. the real history of medieval london is yet to be written; it will be a story of strange contrasts, gold and brass and iron and clay. but there was a greatness in the very disquiet and inconstancy of the city; some ideals were already fermenting there which, realized only after centuries of conflict, have made modern england what we are proud to see her; and other ideals of which we, like our forefathers, can only say that we trust in their future realization. chapter xi "canterbury tales"--the _dramatis personÆ_ "pilgrims and palmers plighted them together to seek st. james, and saints in rome. they went forth in their way with many wise tales, and had leave to lie all their life after ... hermits on an heap, with hooked staves, wenten to walsingham, and their wenches after; great lubbers and long, that loth were to labour, clothed them in copes to be knowen from other, and shaped themselves as hermits, their ease to have." "piers plowman," b., prol. during those twelve years in aldgate tower, chaucer's genius fought its way through the literary conventions of his time to the full assertion of its native originality. he had begun with allegory and moralization, after the model of the "roman de la rose"; shreds of these conventions clung to him even to the end of the aldgate period; but they were already outworn. in "troilus and cressida" we have real men and women under all the classical machinery: they think and act as men thought and acted in chaucer's time; and pandarus especially is so lifelike and individual that shakespeare will transfer him almost bodily to his own canvas. in the "house of fame" and the "legend of good women" the form indeed is again allegorical, but the poet's individuality breaks through this narrow mask; his self-revelations are franker and more direct than at any previous time; and in each case he wearied of the poem and broke off long before the end. with the humility of a true artist, he had practised his hand for years to draw carefully after the old acknowledged models; but these now satisfied him less and less. his mind was stored with images which could not be forced into the narrow framework of a dream; he must find a canvas broad enough for all the life of his time; for the cream of all that he had seen and heard in flanders and france and italy, in the streets of london and on the open highways of a dozen english counties. boccaccio, for a similar scheme, had brought together a company of young florentines of the upper class, and of both sexes, in a villa-garden. chaucer's plan of a pilgrim cavalcade gave him a variety of character as much greater as the company in a third-class carriage is more various than that in a west-end club. [illustration: a hostelry at night (from a th-century ms. of "les cent nouvelles nouvelles" in the hunterian library at glasgow)] in earlier ages, a pilgrimage had of course been a very solemn matter, involving the certainty of great labour and heavy privations, and with very considerable risk to life or limb. the crusades themselves were pilgrimages _en masse_, as contemporary chroniclers often remind us. at the commencement of an undertaking so serious, the pilgrims naturally sought the blessing of the church; and there was a special service for their use. it is probable, however, that chaucer's pilgrims troubled themselves as little about this service as about the special pilgrim's dress, the absence of which appears very plainly from his descriptions of their costume. for a century at least before he wrote, pilgrimages had been gradually becoming journeys rather of pleasure than of duty, for those who could afford the necessary expense which they entailed. travelling indeed was not always safe; but when the pilgrim went alone and on foot he could always protect himself from most evil-doers by taking the traditional scrip and staff and gown which marked him as sacred; and often, as in chaucer's case, a caravan was formed which might well defy all the ordinary perils of the road. the "mire" and "slough," which chaucer more than once mentions, had always been as much a matter of common routine to everybody, even on his journey from farm to farm or village to village, as a puncture is to the modern cyclist, or occasional external traction to the motorist.[ ] moreover, though the inns might not be what we should call luxurious, they offered abundant good cheer and good fellowship to all who could pay the price. a certain count of poitou went about in disguise to find what class of his subjects led the happiest life; he judged at last "that the merchants at fair-time, who go to taverns and find all the delicacies they can desire ready prepared, would lead the most delightful life of all, but for this one drawback, that they must at last settle the score for all that they have consumed."[ ] if, at these inns, the pilgrims often found themselves packed into great dormitories fitted with berths like a ship's cabin, this was far less of a change from their ordinary habits than are those hardships to which modern mountain tourists cheerfully submit on occasion.[ ] any great change from the ordinary routine marks a bright spot in most men's minds, even in these days of many amusements and much locomotion; so that, in proportion as the king's peace grew more effectual in england, and places of pilgrimage multiplied, and the middle classes could better afford the expense of time or money, it became as natural to many people to go to walsingham or canterbury for the sake of the pleasant society as it was to choose a church for the sake of gossip or flirtation.[ ] this is already complained of about a.d. by berthold of regensburg, one of the greatest mission-preachers of the th century. "men talk nowadays in church as if it were at market.... one tells what he has seen on his pilgrimage to palestine or rome or compostella: thou mayst easily say so much in church of these same pilgrimages, that god or st. james will give thee no reward therefore." again, "many a man journeys hence to st. james of compostella, and never hears a single mass on the way out or back, and then they go with sport and laughter, and some seldom say even their paternoster! this i say not to turn pilgrims aside from compostella; i am not strong enough for that; but thou mightest earn more grace by a few masses than for all thy journey to compostella and back. now, what dost thou find at compostella? st. james's head. well and good: that is a dead skull: the better part is in heaven. now, what findest thou at home, at thy yard-gate? when thou goest to church in the morning, thou findest the true god and man, body and soul, as truly as on that day wherein he was born of our lady st. mary, the ever-virgin, whose holiness is greater than all saints.... thou mayst earn more reward at one mass than another man in his six weeks out to st. jacob and six weeks back again: that makes twelve weeks." "ye run to st. james, and sell so much at home that sometimes your wives and children must ever be the poorer for it, or thou thyself in need and debt all thy life long. such a man crams himself so that he comes back far fatter than he went, and has much to say of what he has seen, and lets no man listen to the service or the sermon in church." two other great preachers, cardinal jacques de vitry shortly before berthold, and etienne de bourbon shortly after him, speak of the debaucheries which were not unusual on pilgrimages: the latter tells how pilgrims sometimes sang obscene songs in chorus, and joined in dissolute dances with the lewd village folk over the very graves in the churchyard; he seems to speak of the german pilgrims as exceptional in singing religious songs. all this was a century before chaucer's journey; and during those hundred years the institution had steadily lost in grace as it gained in popularity. the author of "piers plowman" not only notes how many rascals were to be found on pilgrimages, but would apparently have been glad to see them almost entirely superseded. his professional pilgrim comes hung round with tokens from a hundred shrines; he has been at rome, compostella, jerusalem, sinai, bethlehem, babylon, and even in armenia; but of "saint truth" he has never heard, and can give no help to those who are in real distress about their souls. an ideal society would be one in which st. james was sought only by the sick-beds of the poor, and pilgrims resorted no longer to rome but to "prisons and poor cottages" instead. seventeen years before chaucer's journey, even a prelate of the church dared to raise a similar protest. archbishop sudbury (then only bishop of london) was met by a band of pilgrims on their way to becket's jubilee. they asked for his blessing; he told them plainly that the promised plenary indulgence would be useless to them unless they went in a more reverent spirit; and many simple souls were rather pained than surprised when wat tyler's mob, eleven years later, hacked off the head of so free-thinking an archbishop on tower hill.[ ] if this was what orthodox folk said already, then we need not wonder at wycliffe's outspoken condemnation, or that a citizen of nottingham, as early as , was compelled under pain of the stake to promise (among other articles) "i shall never more despise pilgrimage." ten years after chaucer, again, the lollard thorpe was tried before archbishop arundel, and painted pilgrimages exactly as chaucer's poor parson would have described them. "such fond people waste blamefully god's goods on their vain pilgrimages, spending their goods upon vicious hostelries, which are oft unclean women of their bodies.... also, sir, i knowe well that when divers men and women will goe thus after their own willes, and finding out one pilgrimage, they will ordaine with them before, to have with them both men and women that can well sing wanton songes, and some other pilgrimes will have with them bagge pipes; so that everie towne that they come through, what with the noise of their singing, and with the sound of their piping, and with the jangling of their canterburie bels, and with the barking out of dogges after them, that they make more noise, then if the king came there away, with all his clarions, and many other minstrels. and if these men and women be a moneth out in their pilgrimage, many of them shall be an halfe yeare after, great janglers, tale-tellers, and liers."[ ] a century later, we find archbishop warham and the pope negotiating privately about becket's jubilee in a frankly commercial spirit, while erasmus publicly held up the canterbury pilgrimage to ridicule; and a few years later again st. thomas was declared a traitor, his shrine was plundered, and the pilgrimages ceased. it may indeed be said that the canterbury pilgrimage would not have been so proper for our poet's dramatic purpose but that most of its religious earnestness had long since evaporated. but what a canvas it was in , and how frankly chaucer utilized all its possibilities! the opportunity of bringing in any tale which lay nearest to his heart--for what tale in the world was there that might not come naturally from one or other of this party?--was only a part of all that this subject offered, as the poet realized from the very first. even more delightful than any of the tales told by chaucer's pilgrims, is the tale which he tells us about them all: the story of their journey to canterbury. nowhere within so brief a compass can we realize either the life of the th century on one hand, or on the other that dramatic power in which chaucer stands second only to shakespeare among english poets. forget for a while the separate tales of the pilgrims--many of which were patched up by fits and starts during such broken leisure as this man of the world could afford for indulging his poetical fancies; while many others (like the monk's and the parson's) are tedious to modern readers in strict proportion to their dramatic propriety at the moment--forget for once all but the prologue and the end-links, and read these through at one sitting, from the first stirrup-cup at southwark tabard to that final crest of harbledown where the weary travellers look down at last upon the sacred city of their pilgrimage. there is no such story as this in all medieval literature; no such wonderful gallery of finished portraits, nor any drama so true both to common life and to perfect art. the _dramatis personæ_ of the "decameron" are mere puppets in comparison; their occasional talk seems to us insipid to the last degree of old-world fashion; boccaccio's preface and interludes are as much less dramatic than chaucer's as their natural background is more picturesque, with its great plague in florence and its glimpses of the val d'arno from that sweet hill-garden of cypress and stone-pine and olive. boccaccio wrote for a society that was in many ways over-refined already; it is fortunate for us that chaucer's public was not yet at that point of literary development at which art is too often tempted into artifice. he took the living men day by day, each in his simplest and most striking characteristics; and from all these motley figures, under the artist's hand, grew a mosaic in which each stands out with all the glow of his own native colour, and with all the added glory of the jewelled hues around him. the sharp contrasts of medieval society gave the poet here a splendid opportunity. in days when the distinctions of rank were so marked and so unforgettable, even to the smallest details of costume, the knight's dignity risked nothing by unbending to familiar jest with the host; and the variety of characters which chaucer has brought together in this single cavalcade is as probable in nature as it is artistically effective. all moods, from the most exalted piety down to the coarsest buffoonery, were possible and natural on a journey religious indeed in essential conception, but which had by this time become so common and worldly a function that few pilgrims dreamed of putting off the old adam until the white walls of canterbury came in sight. the plot has in it all the charm of spring, of open-air travel, and of passing good-fellowship without afterthought; the rich fields of kent, the trees budding into their first green, mine ease in mine inn at night, and over all the journey a far-off halo of sanctity. on the evening of tuesday, april , , twenty-nine pilgrims found themselves together in the tabard at southwark.[ ] this hostelry lay almost within a stone's throw of chaucer's birthplace, and within sight of many most notable london landmarks. behind lay the priory of st. mary overy, where gower was now lodging among the friendly and not too ascetic monks, and where he still lies carved in stone, with his three great books for a pillow to his head. a few yards further in the background stood london bridge, the eighth marvel of the world, with its twenty arches, its two chapels, its double row of houses, and its great tower bristling with rebel skulls. wat tyler's head was among the newest there on that spring evening; and in five years the head of chaucer's earl of worcester was to attain the same bad eminence. beyond the bridge rose the walls and guard-towers of the city, the open quays and nodding wooden houses, and a hundred and fifty church steeples, seldom indeed of any great architectural pretensions individually, but most picturesque in their variety, and dominated by the loftiest of all existing european structures--the wooden spire of old st. paul's.[ ] [illustration: short was his gown, with sleevës long and wide. well could he sit on horse, and fairë ride the squire of the "canterbury tales" (from the ellesmere ms. ( th century))] nor were the pilgrims themselves less picturesque than the background of their journey. at the head of the first group the knight, so fresh from the holy wars that the grease of his armour still stains his leather doublet, and that we guess his rank only from the excellence of his steed and his own high breeding-- and though that he were worthy, he was wise, and of his port as meek as is a maid. he never yet no villainy ne said in all his life, unto no manner wight. he was a very perfect gentle knight. then his son, the squire, a model of youthful beauty and strength, who had already struck many a good blow in france for his lady's grace, but who shows here his gentler side, with yellow curls falling upon the shortest of fashionable jackets and the longest of sleeves-- embroidered was he, as it were a mead all full of freshë flowrës, white and red. singing he was, or fluting, all the day; he was as fresh as is the month of may. and lastly their single attendant, the nut-headed yeoman forester, with his suit of lincoln green, his peacock arrows, and his mighty bow. after chivalry comes the church; and first the fine black cloth and snowy linen of madam eglantine and her fellow nun, clean and dainty and demure, like a pair of aristocratic pussy-cats on a drawing-room hearthrug. their male escort, the nuns' priest, commands no great reverence from mine host, who, however, will presently doff his cap before the prioress, and address her with a studied deference even beyond the courtesy which he renders to the knight. her dignified reserve, her natural anxiety to set off a fine person with more elaboration of costume than the strict rule permitted, her french of stratford attë bowe, her tenderness to lapdogs and even to marauding mice, her faultless refinement of behaviour under the ticklish conditions of a th-century dinner-table--all these pardonable luxuries of a fastidious nature are described with chaucer's most delicate irony, and stand in artistic contrast to the grosser indiscipline of the monk. this "manly man, to be an abbot able," contemptuously repudiated the traditional restraints of the cloister, and even the comparatively mild discipline of those smaller and therefore less rigorous "cells" which the fiery zeal of st. bernard stigmatized as "synagogues of satan."[ ] he scoffed at the benedictine prohibition of field sports and of extravagant dress, and at the old-fashioned theory of subduing the flesh by hard brainwork or field labour; yet at bottom he seems to have been a good fellow enough, with a certain real dignity of character; and the discipline which he so unceremoniously rejected had by this time (as we may see from the official records of his order) grown very generally obsolete. but still more strange to the earlier ideals of his order was the next cleric on chaucer's list, the friar. father hubert is one of those jovial sinners for whom old adam has always a lurking sympathy even when the new adam feels most bound to condemn them. essentially irreligious even in his most effective religious discourse; greedy, unabashed, as ubiquitous and intrusive as a bluebottle fly, he is yet always supple and ingratiating; a favourite boon-companion of the country squires, but still more popular with many women; equally free and easy with barmaids at a tavern or with wife and daughter in a citizen's hall. the summoner and the pardoner, parasites that crawled on the skirts of the church and plied under her broad mantle their dubious trade in sacred things, had not even the friar's redeeming features; yet we see at a glance their common humanity, and even recognize in our modern world many of the follies on which they were tempted to trade. two figures alone among this company go far to redeem the church--the scholar and the poor parson. the former's disinterested devotion to scholarship has passed into a proverb: "gladly would he learn, and gladly teach"--an ideal which then, as always, went too often hand in hand with leanness and poverty. the parson, contentedly poor himself and full of compassion for his still poorer neighbours, equally ready at time of need to help the struggling sinner or to "snib" the impenitent rich man, has often tempted earlier commentators to read their own religious prepossessions into chaucer's verse. one party has assumed that so good a priest must have been a lollard, or wycliffe himself; while others have contended (with even less show of evidence, as we shall presently see) that he represents the typical orthodox rector or vicar of chaucer's time. the one thing of which we may be certain is that chaucer knew and reverenced goodness when he saw it, and that he would willingly have subscribed to thackeray's humble words, "for myself, i am a heathen and a publican, but i can't help thinking that those men are in the right." in the tales themselves, as on the pilgrimage, a multitude of sins are covered by this ploughman's brother, of whom it is written that-- christës lore, and his apostles' twelve, he taught, and first he followed it him-selve. [illustration: a party of pilgrims (from ms. roy. . d. ii. f. )] to summarize even briefly the appearance and character of the remaining eighteen pilgrims would be too long a task; but it must be noticed how infallible an eye chaucer had for just the touch which makes a portrait live. the country squire, looking like a daisy with his fiery face and white beard; the sailor, embarrassed with his horse; the wife of bath, "somedeal deaf," and therefore as loud in her voice as in her dress; the summoner's scurvy eczema under his thick black eyebrows; the pardoner's smooth yellow hair and eyes starting out of his head; the thick-set miller, with a red-bristled wart on the end of his nose, and a bullet head with which he could burst in a door at one charge; and his rival the slender, choleric reeve-- full longë were his leggës and full lean, y-like a staff; there was no calf y-seen! a goodly company, indeed, and much to the taste of harry bailey, mine host of the tabard, whom we may pretty safely identify with an actual contemporary and fellow m.p. of chaucer's.[ ] he proposes, therefore, to be their guide and master of the ceremonies on the road to canterbury and back. the pilgrims themselves shall tell tales to shorten the journey, "drawing cut" for their order; and the teller of the best tale shall, on their return, enjoy a supper at the expense of the rest-- by one assent we be accorded to his judgëment; and thereupon the wine was set anon; we drunken, and to restë went each one withouten any longer tarrying. a-morrow, when the day began to spring, up rose the host, and was our aller cock, [for all of us and gathered us together in a flock.... [illustration: a white coat and a blue hood wearëd he, a bagpipe well couldë he blow and sound, and therewithal he brought us out of town. the miller (from the ellesmere ms.)] chapter xii "canterbury tales"--first and second days "for lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."--solomon's song here, then, they are assembled on a perfect morning of english spring, with london streets awakening to life behind them, and the open road in front. think of the dayspring from on high, the good brown earth and tender foliage, smoke curling up from cottage chimneys, pawing steeds, barking dogs, the cheerful stirrup-cup; every rider's face set to the journey after his individual mood, when at last the host had successfully gathered his flock-- and forth we ride, a little more than pace, unto the watering of saint thomas. that is, to the little brook which now runs underground near the second milestone on the old kent road, remembered only in the name of st. thomas' road and the thomas à becket tavern. up to this point the party had been enlivened by the miller's bagpipe, and professor raleigh has justly pointed out how many musicians there are in chaucer's company: the squire; the prioress with her psalms, "entuned in her nose full seemëly"; the friar, who could sing so well to his own harp; the pardoner, with his "come hither, love, to me," and the summoner, who accompanied him in so "stiff" a bass. by st. thomas' watering, however, either the miller is out of breath or the party are out of patience, for here the host reins up, and reminds them of their promise to tell tales on the way. they draw cuts, and the longest straw (whether by chance or by boniface's sleight of hand) falls to the one man with whom none other would have disputed for precedence. the knight, with ready courtesy, welcomed the choice "in god's name," and rode on, bidding the company "hearken what i say." let us not inquire too closely how far every word was audible to the whole thirty, as they clattered and splashed along. we may always be sure that enough was heard to keep the general interest alive, and it may be charitably hoped that the two nuns were among those who caught least. the knight's tale was worthy of his reputation--chivalrous, dignified, with some delicate irony and many flights of lofty poetry. the host laughed aloud for joy of this excellent beginning, and called upon the monk for the next turn; but here suddenly broke in-- the miller, that for-dronken was all pale so that unnethe upon his horse he sat ... [scarcely and swore by armës and by blood and bones 'i can a noble talë for the nonce with which i will now quit the knightës tale.' our hostë saw that he was drunk of ale and said, 'abide, robin, my lievë brother, some better man shall tell us first another; abide, and let us worken thriftily.' 'by goddës soul,' quoth he, 'that will not i; for i will speak, or ellës go my way.' our host answered: 'tell on, a devil way! thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome.' 'now hearken,' quoth the miller, 'all and some! but first i make a protestatioun that i am drunk, i know it by my soun; [sound and therefore, if that i misspeak or say, wite it the ale of southwark, i you pray; [blame for i will tell a legend and a life both of a carpenter and of his wife....' the reeve (who is himself a carpenter also) protests in vain against such slander of honest folk and their wives. robin miller has the bit between his teeth, and plunges now headlong into his tale as he had run in old times against the door--a "churlës tale," but told with consummate dramatic effect, and recorded by chaucer with a half-ironical apology-- and therefore every gentle wight i pray for goddës love, deem ye not that i say of evil intent, but that i must rehearse their talës allë, be they better or worse, or ellës falsen some of my matère. and therefore, whoso list it not to hear, turn over the leaf and choose another tale. the miller's story proved an apple of discord in its small way, but poetically effective in the variety which it and its fellows lent to the journey-- diversë folk diversëly they said, but for the mostë part they laughed and played; nor at this tale i saw no man him grieve, but it were only osëwold the reeve, who, though chiefly sensible to the slur upon his own profession, lays special stress on the indecorum of the miller's proceeding. some men (he says) are like medlars, never ripe till they be rotten, and with all the follies of youth under their grizzling hairs-- when that our host had heard this sermoning, he gan to speak as lordly as a king: he saidë 'what amounteth all this wit? what shall we speak all day of holy writ? [why the devil made a reevë for to preach, and of a cobbler a shipman or a leech! say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time, lo, depëford, and it is halfway prime. lo greenëwich, there many a shrew is in; it were all time thy talë to begin.' the story records, by way of natural revenge, the domestic misfortunes of a miller; and, for all the reeve's moral indignation, it is as essentially "churlish" as its predecessor, and as popular with at least one section of the party-- the cook of london, while the reeve spake, for joy, him thought, he clawed him on the back, 'ha, ha!' quoth he, 'for christës passioun, this miller had a sharp conclusion ... but god forbiddë that we stinten here; and therefore, if that ye vouchsafe to hear a tale of me, that am a poorë man, i will you tell as well as ever i can a little jape that fell in our citie.' [jest the host gives leave on the one condition that the tale shall be fresher and wholesomer than the cook's victuals sometimes are-- 'for many a pasty hast thou letten blood, and many a jack of dover hast thou sold [meat pie that hath been twyës hot and twyës cold! of many a pilgrim hast thou christës curse, for of thy parsley yet they fare the worse that they have eaten with thy stubble-goose; for in thy shop is many a flyë loose!' the cook's "little jape," however, to judge by its commencement, was even more fly-blown than his stubble-goose. the miller seemed to have let loose every riotous element, and to have started the company upon a downward slope of accelerating impropriety. but this to chaucer would have been more than a sin, it would have been an obvious artistic blunder; and when the ribaldry begins in earnest, the best manuscripts break off with "of this cook's tale maked chaucer no more." in other mss. the cook himself breaks off in disgust at his own story, and tells the heroic tale of gamelyn, which chaucer may possibly have meant to rewrite for the series. here end the tales of the first day; incomplete enough, as indeed the whole book is only a fragment of chaucer's mighty plan. the pilgrims probably slept at dartford, fifteen miles from london. next morning the host seems to have found it hard to keep his team together; it is ten o'clock when he begins to bewail the time already wasted, and prays the man of law to tell a tale. the lawyer assents in a speech interlarded with legal french and legal metaphors, and referring at some length to chaucer's other poems. he then launches into a formal prologue, and finally tells the pious custance's strange adventures by land and sea. this, if not so generally popular with the company as other less decorous tales before and after it, enjoyed at least a genuine _succès d'estime_. thereupon followed one of the liveliest of all chaucer's dialogues. the host called upon the parish priest for a tale, adjuring him "for goddës bones" and "by goddës dignitie." "_benedicite!_" replied the parson; "what aileth the man, so sinfully to swear?" upon which the host promptly scents "a lollard in the wind," and ironically bids his companions prepare for a sermon.[ ] the shipman, professionally indifferent to oaths of whatever description, and bold in conscious innocence of all puritanical taint, here interposes an emphatic veto-- 'nay, by my father's soul, that shall he not,' saidë the shipman; 'here he shall not preach. he shall no gospel glosen here nor teach. [expound we believe all in the great god,' quoth he, 'he wouldë sowen some difficultee, or springen cockle in our cleanë corn; and therefore, host, i warnë thee beforn, my jolly body shal a talë tell, and i shall clinken you so merry a bell that i shall waken all this companye; but it shall not be of philosophye, nor _physices_, nor termës quaint of law, there is but little latin in my maw.' the bluff skipper is as good as his word; his tale is frankly unprofessional, and its infectious jollity must almost have appealed to the parson himself, even though it reeked with the most orthodox profanity, and showed no point of contact with puritanism except a low estimate of average monastic morals. 'well said, by _corpus dominus_,' quoth our host, 'now longë mayest thou sailë by the coast, sir gentle master, gentle mariner! ... draw ye no monkës more unto your inn! but now pass on, and let us seek about who shall now tellë first, of all this rout, another tale;' and with that word he said, as courteously as it had been a maid, 'my lady prioressë, by your leave, so that i wist i shouldë you not grieve, i wouldë deemen that ye tellen should a talë next, if so were that ye would. now will ye vouchësafe, my lady dear?' 'gladly,' quoth she, and said as ye shall hear. the gentle lady tells that charming tale which burne-jones so loved and adorned, of the little scholar murdered by jews for his devotion to the blessed virgin, and sustained miraculously by her power. chaucer loved the prioress; and he makes us feel the reverent hush which followed upon her tale-- when said was all this miracle, every man so sober was, that wonder was to see, till that our hostë japen then began, and then at erst he lookëd upon me, and saidë thus: 'what man art thou?' quoth he; 'thou lookest as thou wouldest find an hare, for ever upon the ground i see thee stare. approachë near, and look up merrily. now ware you, sirs, and let this man have place! he in the waist is shape as well as i; this were a puppet in an arm to embrace for any woman, small and fair of face! he seemeth elvish by his countenance, for unto no wight doth he dalliance. say now somewhat, since other folk have said; tell us a tale of mirth, and that anon....' chaucer executes himself as willingly as the rest, and enters upon a long-winded tale of knight-errantry, parodied from the romances in vogue; but the age of chivalry is already half past. before the poet has even finished the preliminary catalogue of his hero's accomplishments-- 'no more of this, for goddës dignitee,' quoth our hostë, 'for thou makest me so weary of thy very lewedness [folly that (all so wisely god my soulë bless) mine earës achen of thy drasty speech [trashy now, such a rhyme the devil i biteche! [commit to this may well be rhyme doggerel,' quoth he. chaucer suffers the interruption with only the mildest of protests, and proceeds to tell instead "a lytel thing in prose," a translation of a french translation of a long-winded moral allegory by an italian friar-preacher. the monumental dulness of this "tale of melibee and of his wife prudence" is no doubt a further stroke of satire, and chaucer must have felt himself amply avenged in recounting this story to the bitter end. yet there was a moral in it which appealed to the host, who burst out-- ... as i am a faithful man and by that precious _corpus madrian_ [st. mathurin i haddë liever than a barrel ale that goodë lief my wife had heard this tale. for she is nothing of such patience as was this melibeus' wife prudence. by goddës bonës, when i beat my knaves, she bringeth me forth the greatë clubbëd staves, and crieth 'slay the doggës every one. and break them, bothë back and every bone!' and if that any neighëbour of mine, will not in churchë to my wife incline, or be so hardy to her to trespass, when she com'th home she rampeth in my face and crieth 'falsë coward, wreak thy wife! by corpus bones! i will have thy knife, and thou shalt have my distaff and go spin!' the host has plenty more to say on this theme; but presently he remembers his duties, and calls upon the monk for a tale, though not without another long digression on monastic comforts and monastic morals, from the point of view of the man in the street. the monk takes all his broad jesting with the good humour of a man who is used to it, and offers to tell some tragedies, "of which i have an hundred in my cell." after a few harmless pedantries by way of prologue, he proceeds to reel off instalments of his hundred tragedies with the steady, self-satisfied, merciless drone of a man whose office and cloth generally assure him of a patient hearing. here, however, we are no longer in the minster, but in god's own sunlight and fresh air; the pilgrim's way is liberty hall; and while dan piers is yet moralizing with damnable iteration over the ninth of his fallen heroes, the knight suddenly interrupts him--the knight himself, who never yet no villainy ne said, in all his life, unto no manner wight! 'ho!' quoth the knight, 'good sir, no more of this! what ye have said is right enough, ywis [certainly and muckle more; for little heaviness is right enough to many folk, i guess. i say for me it is a great dis-ease, where as men have been in great wealth and ease to hearen of their sudden fall, alas! and the contrary is joy and great solace ... and of such thing were goodly for to tell.' 'yea,' quoth our host, 'by saintë paulës bell! ... sir monk, no more of this, so god you bless, your tale annoyeth all this companye; such talking is not worth a butterflye, for therein is there no desport nor game. wherefore, sire monk, or dan piers by your name, i pray you heartily, tell us somewhat else; for surely, but for clinking of your bells that on your bridle hang on every side, by heaven's king, that for us allë died, i should ere this have fallen down for sleep, although the slough had never been so deep ... sir, say somewhat of hunting, i you pray.' 'nay,' quoth this monk, 'i have no lust to play; now let another tell, as i have told.' then spake our host with rudë speech and bold, and said unto the nunnës priest anon, 'come near, thou priest, come hither, thou sir john! tell us such thing as may our heartës glad; be blithë, though thou ride upon a jade. what though thine horse be bothë foul and lean? if it will serve thee, reck thou not a bean; look that thine heart be merry evermo!' the domestic confessor of stately madame eglantine is possibly accustomed to sudden and peremptory commands; in any case, he obeys readily enough here. "'yes, sir,' quoth he, 'yes, host'" ... and proceeds to recount that tragi-comedy of reynard and chanticleer which, well-worn as the plot is, shows off to perfection many of chaucer's rarest artistic qualities. the tale is told, and the host shows his appreciation by saluting the nuns' priest with the same broad gibes and innuendoes with which he had already greeted the monk. here probably ends the second day; the pilgrims would sleep at rochester, which was in sight when the monk began his tale. chapter xiii "canterbury tales"--third and fourth days "... quasi peregrin, che si ricrea nel tempio del suo voto riguardando, e spera gia ridir com' ello stea." "paradiso," xxxi., on the morning of the third day we find the physician speaking; he tells the tragedy of virginia, not straight from livy, whom chaucer had probably never had a chance of reading, but from its feebler echo in the "roman de la rose." even so, however, the pity of it comes home to his hearers. our hostë gan to swear as he were wood; [mad 'harrow!' quoth he, 'by nailës and by blood! this was a false churl and a false justice! ... by _corpus_ bonës! but i have triacle [medicinal syrup or else a draught of moist and corny ale, or but i hear anon a merry tale, mine heart is lost, for pity of this maid. thou _bel ami_, thou pardoner,' he said 'tell us some mirth, or japës, right anon!' 'it shall be done,' quoth he, 'by saint ronyon! but first' (quoth he) 'here at this alë stake i will both drink and eaten of a cake.' and right anon the gentles gan to cry 'nay! let him tell us of no ribaldry....' 'i grant, ywis,' quoth he; 'but i must think upon some honest thing, the while i drink.' the suspicion of the "gentles" might seem premature; but they evidently suspected this pardon-monger of too copious morning-draughts already, and the tenor of his whole prologue must have confirmed their fears. with the cake in his mouth, and the froth of the pot on his lips, he takes as his text, _radix malorum est cupiditas_, "covetousness is the root of all evil," and exposes with cynical frankness the tricks of his trade. by a judicious use of "my longë crystal stones, y-crammëd full of cloutës and of bones," i make (says he) my round marks a year;[ ] and, when the people have offered, then i mount the pulpit, nod east and west upon the congregation like a dove on a barn-gable, and preach such tales as this.... hereupon follows his tale of the three thieves who all murdered each other for the same treasure. it is told with admirable spirit; and now the pardoner, carried away by sheer force of habit, calls upon the company to kiss his relics, make their offerings, and earn his indulgences piping-hot from rome. might not a horse stumble here, at this very moment, and break the neck of some unlucky pilgrim, who would then bitterly regret his lost opportunities in hell or purgatory? strike, then, while the iron is hot-- i counsel that our host here shall begin, for he is most enveloped in sin! ... come forth, sir host, and offer first anon, and thou shalt kiss my relics every one ... yea, for a groat! unbuckle anon thy purse. 'nay, nay,' quoth he, 'then have i christë's curse ... the host, as his opening words may suggest, answers to the purpose, easy words to understand, but not so easy to print here in the broad nakedness of their scorn for the pardoner and all his works-- this pardoner answerëd not a word; so wroth he was, no wordë would he say. 'now,' quoth our host, 'i will no longer play with thee, nor with none other angry man.' but right anon the worthy knight began (when that he saw that all the people lough) [laughed 'no more of this, for it is right enough! [quite sir pardoner, be glad and merry of cheer; and ye, sir host, that be to me so dear, i pray now that ye kiss the pardoner; and, pardoner, i pray thee draw thee near, and, as we diden, let us laugh and play.' anon they kist, and riden forth their way. [illustration: upon an ambler easily she sat, y-wimpled well, and on her head an hat as broad as is a buckler or a targe; a foot-mantle about her hippës large, and on her feet a pair of spurrës sharp. the wife of bath (from the ellesmere ms.)] the thread of the tales here breaks off; and then suddenly we find the wife of bath talking, talking, talking, almost without end as she was without beginning. her prologue is half a dozen tales in itself, longer almost, and certainly wittier, than all the other prologues put together. the theme is marriage, and her mouth speaks from the abundance of her heart. here, indeed, we have god's plenty: fish, flesh, and fowl are set before us in one dish, not to speak of creeping things: it is in truth a strong mess, savoury to those that have the stomach for it, but reeking of garlic, crammed with oaths like the shipman's talk; a sample of the eternal feminine undisguised and unrefined, in its most glaring contrast with the only other two women of the party, the prioress and her fellow-nun-- men may divine, and glosen up and down, but well i wot, express, withouten lie, god bade us for to wax and multiply; that gentle text can i well understand. eke, well i wot, he said that mine husband should leavë father and mother, and takë me; but of no number mention madë he of bigamy or of octogamy, why shouldë men speak of it villainy? the good wife tells how she has outlived five husbands, and proclaims her readiness for a sixth. the five martyrs are sketched with a master-touch, and are divided into categories according to their obedience or disobedience. but, with all their variety of disposition, time and matrimony had tamed even the most stubborn of them; even that clerk of oxford whose earlier wont had been to read aloud nightly by the fire from a book of bad women-- ... and when i saw he wouldë never fine [finish to readen on this cursed book all night, all suddenly three leavës have i plight [plucked out of his book, right as he read; and eke i with my fist so took him on the cheek that in our fire he fell backward adown; and up he start as doth a wood lioun [mad and with his fist he smote me on the head, that in the floor i lay as i were dead ... but the quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love; and when the husband had been brought, half by violence and half by cajolery, to give his wife her own way in everything, then-- after that day we never had debate. god help me so, i was to him as kind as any wife from denmark unto ind. for all social purposes, as we have said, this was the only woman of the company; and where there is one woman there are always two men as ready to quarrel over her as if she were helen of troy. moreover, in this case, professional jealousies were also at work. already in the middle of her prologue the summoner had fallen into familiar dialogue with this merry wife; and now, at the end-- the friar laughed when he had heard all this; 'now, dame,' quoth he, 'so have i joy or bliss, this is a long preamble of a tale!' and when the summoner heard the friar gale [cry out 'lo,' quoth the summoner, 'goddës armes two! a friar will intermit him ever-mo. [interfere lo, goodë men, a fly, and eke a frere will fall in every dishë and matère. what speak'st thou of a "preambulation"? what? amble, or trot, or peace, or go sit down! thou lettest our disport in this manère.' 'yea, wilt thou so, sir summoner?' quoth the frere; 'now, by my faith, i shall, ere that i go, tell of a summoner such a tale or two that all the folk shall laughen in this place.' 'now ellës, friar, i beshrew thy face,' [curse quoth this summoner, 'and i beshrewë me, but if i tellë tales, two or three, of friars, ere i come to sittingbourne, that i shall make thine heartë for to mourn, for well i wot thy patience is gone.' our hostë crièd 'peace! and that anon;' and saidë: 'let the woman tell her tale; ye fare as folk that drunken be of ale. do, dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best.' 'all ready, sir,' quoth she, 'right as you list, if i have licence of this worthy frere.' 'yes, dame,' quoth he, 'tell forth, and i will hear.' the lady, having thus definitely notified her choice between the rivals (on quite other grounds, as the next few lines show, than those of religion or morality), proceeds to tell her tale on the theme that nothing is so dear to the female heart as "sovereignty" or "mastery." then the quarrel blazes up afresh, and the friar (after an insulting prologue for which the host calls him to order) tells a story which is, from first to last, a bitter satire on the whole tribe of summoners. then the summoner, "quaking like an aspen leaf for ire," stands up in his stirrups and claims to be heard in turn. his prologue, which by itself might suffice to turn the tables on his enemy, is a broad parody of those revelations to devout religious which announced how the blessed souls of their particular order (for the friars were not alone in this egotism) enjoyed for their exclusive use some choice and peculiar mansion in heaven--under the skirts of the virgin's mantle, for instance, or even within the wound of their saviour's side. then begins the tale itself of a franciscan stiggins on his daily rounds, and of the "oldë churl, with lockës hoar," who at one stroke blasphemed the whole convent, and took ample change out of friar john for many a good penny or fat meal given in the past, and for much friction in his conjugal relations. the whole is told with inimitable humour, and it is to be regretted that we hear nothing of the comments with which it was received. at this point comes another gap in chaucer's plan. [illustration: his eyen twinkled in his head aright as do the starrës in a frosty night. the friar (from the ellesmere ms.)] then suddenly our host calls upon the clerk of oxford-- ye ride as still and coy as doth a maid, were newly spousëd, sitting at the board; this day ne heard i of your tongue a word ... for goddës sake, as be of better cheer! it is no timë for to study here. the clerk, thus rudely shaken from his meditations, tells the story of patient griselda, which he had "learned at padua, of a worthy clerk ... francis petrarch, the laureate poet." the good clerk softens down much of that which most shocks the modern mind in this truly medieval conception of wifely obedience; and, as a confirmed bachelor, he adds an ironical postscript which is as clever as anything chaucer ever wrote.[ ] we must revere the heroine, but despair of finding her peer-- griseld' is dead, and eke her patience, and both at once burièd in itayle. so begins this satirical ballad, and goes on to bid the wife of the present day to enjoy herself at her husband's expense-- be aye of cheer as light as leaf on lind, [lime-tree and let him care and weep, and wring and wail! the last line rouses a sad echo in one heart at least, for the merchant had been wedded but two months-- 'weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow, i know enough, on even and a-morrow' quoth the merchant, 'and so do other more that wedded be ...' his tale turns accordingly on the misadventures of an old knight who had been foolish enough to marry a girl in her teens. upon this the host congratulates himself that _his_ wife, with all her shrewishness and other vices more, is "as true as any steel." here ends the third day; the travellers probably slept at the pilgrim's house at ospringe, parts of which stand still as chaucer saw it. next morning the squire is first called upon to ... say somewhat of love; for certes ye do ken thereon as much as any man. he modestly disclaims the compliment, and tells (or rather leaves half told) the story of cambuscan, with the magic ring and mirror and horse of brass. chaucer had evidently intended to finish the story; for the franklin is loud in praise of the young man's eloquence, and sighs to mark the contrast with his own son, who, in spite of constant paternal "snybbings," haunts dice and low company, and shows no ambition to learn of "gentillesse." "straw for your 'gentillessë,' quoth our host," and forthwith demands a tale from the franklin, who, with many apologies for his want of rhetoric, tells admirably a breton legend of chivalry and magic. another gap brings us to the second nun, who tells the tale of st. cecilia from the golden legend, with a prefatory invocation to the virgin translated from dante. by the time this is ended the pilgrims are five miles further on, at boughton-under-blee. here, at the foot of the hilly forest of blean, with only eight more miles before them to canterbury, they are startled by the clattering of horse-hoofs behind them. it was a canon regular with a yeoman at his heels.[ ] the man had seen the pilgrims at daybreak, and warned his master; and the two had ridden hard to overtake so merry a company. while the canon greeted the pilgrims, our host questioned his yeoman, who first obscurely hinted, and then began openly to relate, such things as made the canon set spurs to his horse and "flee away for very sorrow and shame." the yeoman is now only too glad to make a clean breast of it. he has been seven years with this monastic alchemist, who has fallen meanwhile from one degree of poverty to another; half-cheat, half-dupe, with a thousand tricks for cozening folk of their money, but always wasting his own on the search for the philosopher's stone. meanwhile, after ruinous expenses and painful care, every experiment ends in the same way: "the pot to-breaketh, and farewell, all is go!" the experimenters pick themselves up, look round on the mass of splinters and the dinted walls, and begin to quarrel over the cause-- some said it was along on the fire making, some saidë nay, it was on the blowing, (then was i feared, for that was mine office,) 'straw!' quoth the third, 'ye be lewëd and nice [ignorant and foolish it was not tempered as it ought to be.' 'nay,' quoth the fourthë, 'stint and hearken me; because our fire ne was not made of beech, that is the cause, and other none, so i theech!' [so may i thrive! at last the mess is swept up, the few recognizable fragments of metal are put aside for further use, another furnace is built, and the indefatigable canon concocts a fresh hell-broth, sweeping away all past failures with the incurable optimism of a monomaniac, "there was defect in somewhat, well i wot." many of the fraternity, however, are arrant knaves, without the least redeeming leaven of folly; and the yeoman goes on to tell the tricks by which such an one beguiled a "sotted priest" who had set his heart on this unlawful gain. by this time the company was come to "bob up and down," which was probably the pilgrims' nickname for upper harbledown. here our host found the cook straggling behind, asleep on his nag in broad daylight-- 'awake, thou cook,' quoth he, 'god give thee sorrow! what aileth thee to sleepë by the morrow? hast thou had fleas all night, or art thou drunk?' the cook opens his mouth, and at once compels his neighbours to adopt the latter and less charitable theory. he is evidently in no state for story-telling; so the manciple offers himself instead, not without a few broad jests at his fellow's infirmity-- and with this speech the cook was wroth and wraw, [indignant and on the manciple he 'gan noddë fast for lack of speech; and down the horse him cast, where as he lay till that men up him took! the manciple, fearing lest the cook's resentment should prompt some future revenge in the way of business, pulled out a gourd of wine, coaxed another draught into the drunken man, and earned his half-articulate gratitude. then he told the fable of the crow from ovid's metamorphoses. the tale was ended, and the sun began to sink, for it was four o'clock.[ ] the cavalcade began to "enter at a thorpë's end"--no doubt the village of harbledown, the last before canterbury, famous for the black prince's well and for the relics of st. thomas at its leper hospital. here at last the pilgrims remember the real object of their journey. the host lays aside his oaths (all but one, "cokkës bones!" which slips out unawares) and looks round now for the hitherto neglected parson, upon whom he calls for a "fable." this parson answered all at once 'thou gettest fable none y-told for me, for paul, that writeth unto timothee, reproveth them that weyven soothfastness [depart from and tellen fables and such wretchedness ... i cannot gestë "_rum, ram, ruf_" by letter,[ ] nor, god wot, rhyme hold i but little better; and therefore if you list--i will not glose-- i will you tell a merry tale in prose to knit up all this feast, and make an end; and jesu, for his gracë, wit me send to shewë you the way, in this voyage, of thilkë perfect, glorious pilgrimage that hight jerusalem celestial ...' upon this word we have assented soon, for as us seemed, it was for to doon [right to do to enden in some virtuous sentence, and for to give him space and audience. the host voices the common consent, reinforcing his speech for once with a prayer instead of an oath. the parson then launches out into a treatise on the seven deadly sins and their remedies, translated from the french of a th-century friar. the treatise (like chaucer's other prose writings) lacks the style of his verse; but it contains one lively and amusing chapter of his own insertion, satirizing the extravagance of costume in his day (lines ff.). [illustration:canterbvry from w. smith's drawing of . (sloane ms. ). the pilgrims entered by the west gate (no. )] long before the parson had ended, the city must have been in full view below--white-walled, red-roofed amid its orchards and green meadows, but lacking that perfect bell-tower which, from far and near, is now the fairest sight of all. at this point an anonymous and far inferior poet has continued chaucer's narrative in the "tale of beryn." the prologue to that tale shows us the pilgrims putting up at the chequers inn, "that many a man doth know," fragments of which may still be seen close to the cathedral at the corner of mercery lane.[ ] travelling as they did in force--and especially with such redoubtable champions among their party--they would no doubt have been able to choose this desirable hostel without too great molestation; but in favour of less able-bodied pilgrims the city authorities were obliged to pass a law that no hosteler should "disturb no manner of strange man coming to the city for to take his inn; but it shall be lawful to take his inn at his own lust without disturbance of any hosteler."[ ] in the cathedral itself-- the pardoner and the miller, and other lewd sots, sought themselves in the church right as lewd goats, peerëd fast and porëd high upon the glass, counterfeiting gentlemen, the armës for to blase, [blazon till the host bade them show better manners, and go offer at the shrine. "then passed they forth boisterously, goggling with their heads," kissed the relics dutifully, saw the different holy places, and presently sat down to dinner. how the miller (being accustomed to such sleight of hand) stole afterwards a bosom-full of "canterbury brooches"; how uproarious was the merriment after supper, and how the pardoner became the hero of a scandalous adventure--this and much more may be read at length in the prologue to the "tale of beryn." it will already have been noted, however, that the anonymous poet entirely agrees with chaucer in laying stress on what may be called the bank-holiday side of the pilgrimage. that side does indeed come out with rather more than its due prominence when we thus skip the separate tales and run straight through the plot of the pilgrims' journey; but, when all allowances have been made, chaucer enables us to understand why orthodox preachers spoke on this subject almost as strongly as the heresiarch wycliffe; and, on the other hand, how great a gap was made in the life of the common folk by the abolition of pilgrimages. the very fidelity with which the poet paints his own time shows us the reformation in embryo. we have in fact here, within the six hundred pages of the "canterbury tales," one of the most vivid and significant of all scenes in the great legend of the ages; and his pilgrims, so intent upon the present, so exactly mirrored by chaucer as they moved and spoke in their own time, tell us nevertheless both of another age that was almost past and of a future time which was not yet ripe for reality. the knight is still of course the most respected figure in such a company; and he brings into the book a pale afterglow of the real crusades; but the host now treads close upon his heels, big with the importance of a prosperous citizen who has twice sat in parliament side by side with knights of the shire. the good prioress recalls faintly the heroic age of monasticism; yet st. benedict and st. francis would have recognized their truest son in the poor parson, upon whom the pilgrims called only in the last resort. the monk and the friar, the summoner and the pardoner, do indeed remind us how large a share the church claimed in every department of daily life; but they make us ask at the same time "how long can it last?" extremes meet; and the "lewd sots" who went "goggling with their heads," gaping and disputing at the painted windows on their way to the shrine, were lineal ancestors to the notorious "blue dick" of years later, who made a merit of having mounted on a lofty ladder, pike in hand, to "rattle down proud becket's glassie bones." [illustration: edward iii. from his tomb in westminster abbey] chapter xiv king and queen "then came there a king; knighthood him led; might of the commons made him to reign." "piers plowman," b., prol. we have traced the main course of the poet's life, followed him at work and at play, and considered his immediate environment. let us now try to roam more at large through the england of his day, and note the more salient features of that society, high and low, from which he drew his characters. in this age, chaucer could scarcely have had a better introduction to court life than that which fell to his lot. the king whom he served, when we have made all possible deductions, was still the most imposing sovereign of the time. adam murimuth, a contemporary chronicler not often given to rhetoric, has drawn edward iii.'s portrait with no more exaggeration than we must take for granted in a contemporary, and with such brilliancy that his more picturesque successor, walsingham, has transferred the paragraph almost bodily into his own pages. "this king edward," writes adam, "was of infinite goodness, and glorious among all the great ones of the world, being entitled the glorious par excellence, for that by virtue of grace from heaven he outshone in excellence all his predecessors, renowned and noble as they were. he was so great-hearted that he never blenched or changed the fashion of his countenance at any ill-hap or trouble soever that came upon him; a renowned and fortunate warrior, who triumphed gloriously in battles by sea and land; clement and benign, familiar and gentle even to all men, both strangers and his own subjects or dependents; devoted to god, for he held god's church and his ministers in the greatest reverence. in temporal matters he was not too unyielding, prudent and discreet in counsel, affable and gentle in courtesy of speech, composed and measured in gesture and manners, pitiful to the afflicted, and profuse in largesse. in times of wealth he was not immoderate; his love of building was great and discriminating; he bore losses with moderation; devoted to hawking, he spent much pains on that art. his body was comely, and his face like the face of a god, wherefrom so marvellous grace shone forth that whosoever openly considered his countenance, or dreamed thereof by night, conceived a sure and certain hope of pleasant solace and good-fortune that day. he ruled his realm strictly even to his old age; he was liberal in giving and lavish in spending; for he was excellent in all honour of manners, so that to live under him was to reign; since his fame was so spread abroad among barbarous nations that, extolling his honour, they averred that no land under the sun had ever produced a king so noble, so generous, or so fortunate; and that, after his death, none such would perchance ever be raised up for future times. yet he controlled not, even in old age, the dissolute lusts of the flesh; and, as is believed, this intemperance shortened his life." hereupon follows a painfully involved sentence in which the chronicler draws a moral from edward's brilliant youth, the full midday of his manhood, and the degradation of his declining years.[ ] if the praise of edward's clemency seems overdrawn to those who remember the story of the citizens of calais, we must bear in mind that the chronicler compares him here with other sovereigns of the time--with his rival philippe de valois, who was scarcely dissuaded from executing sir walter de mauny in cold blood, despite his safe conduct from the dauphin; with gaston de foix, who with a penknife in his hand struck at his only son and killed him; with richard ii., who smote the earl of arundel in the face during the queen's funeral, and "polluted westminster abbey with his blood"; with charles the bad of navarre, and pedro the cruel of spain. what even the cleric murimuth saw, and what chaucer and his friend hoccleve saw still more intimately, was the haroun al-raschid who went about "in simple array alone" to hear what his people said of him; the "mighty victor, mighty lord" of sluys, crécy and calais; the king who in war would freely hazard his own person, "raging like a wild boar, and crying 'ha saint edward! ha saint george!'"[ ] and who in peace would lead the revels at windsor, clad in white and silver, and embroidered with his motto-- hay, hay, the whitë swan! by goddës soul i am thy man! if edward and his sons were renowned for their uniform success in battle, it was not because they had feared to look defeat in the face. every one knows how much was risked and all but lost at crécy and poitiers; the great sea-fight of "les espagnols sur mer" is less known. froissart excels himself in this story.[ ] we see edward sailing out gaily, in spite of the superior numbers of the spaniards, and bidding his minstrels pipe the brand-new air which sir john chandos had brought back from germany, while chandos himself sang the words. then, when the enemy came sailing down upon him with their great embattled ships, the king bade his steersman tilt straight at the first spanish vessel, in spite of the disparity of weight. the english boat cracked under the shock; her seams opened; and, by the time that edward had captured the next ship, his own was beginning to sink. the black prince had even a narrower escape; it became evident that his ship would go down before he could board the enemy; only the timely arrival of the earl of derby saved him; the deck sank almost under his feet as he climbed the sides of the spaniard; "and all the enemy were put overboard without taking any to mercy." the queen prayed all day at some abbey--probably battle--in anguish of heart for the news which came from time to time through watchers on the far-off downs. although edward and his sons took horse at once upon their landing, not until two o'clock in the morning did they find her, apparently in her own castle at pevensey: "so the lords and ladies passed that night in great revel, speaking of war and of love." arms and love were equally commemorated in a foundation which was one of the glories of edward's reign--the round tower of windsor. dying chivalry, like other moribund institutions, broke out now and then into fantastic revivals of the past. edward resolved to hold a round table at his palace, and to build a great tower for the purpose. warrants were sent out to impress the unhappy labourers throughout six counties; for a short time as many as men were employed on the work, and the whole round tower was built in ten months of the year .[ ] froissart connects this, probably too closely, with the order of the garter, which seems not to have been actually founded until , when every household in the country was saddened by the great pestilence. we have here one of the typical contrasts of those times; both sides of the shield are seen in those memories of love and war which cling round the round tower of windsor. lavish profusion side by side with dirt and squalor; the minstrels clad in rich cloths taken from the spaniards; bright eyes and careless merriment at the royal board, while the hawks scream down from their perches, and noble hounds fight for bones among the rushes; silken trains, stiff with gold, trailing over the nameless defilements of the floor; a king and his sons, more stately and warlike than any other royal family; but their crowns are in pawn with foreign merchants, and they themselves have been obliged to leave four earls behind as hostages to their flemish creditors.[ ] royalty has always its _memento mori_, no doubt, but not always under the same forms. [illustration: the peacock feast (from the sepulchral brass of robert braunche, twice mayor of lynn, who died in . braunche had the honour of entertaining edward iii., here distinguished by his crown on the extreme left of the guests. observe the attitude of the attendant squire on the extreme right.)] if chaucer the poet was fortunate in his royal master, still more fortunate was philippa chaucer in her namesake, "the good queen." the wooing of edward and philippa of hainault is painted lovingly by froissart, who was the lady's compatriot and a clerk in her service. in queen isabella of england, who had broken more or less definitely with her husband, was staying with her eldest boy at her brother's court in paris. but the king of france had no wish to encourage open rebellion; and isabella avoided extradition only by fleeing to her cousin, the count of hainault, at valenciennes. "in those days had count william four daughters, margaret, philippa, joan, and isabel; among whom young edward devoted himself most, and inclined with eyes of love to philippa rather than to the rest; and the maiden knew him better and kept closer company with him than any of her sisters. so have i since heard from the mouth of the good lady herself, who was queen of england, and in whose court and service i dwelt." it was agreed, in reward for the count's hospitality, that edward should marry one of the girls; and when isabella went home to conquer england in her son's name, the main body of her army consisted of hainaulters, and most of the prepaid dowry of the future bride was consumed by the expenses of the expedition. then, in , when the wretched edward ii. had bitterly expiated his follies and crimes in the dungeon of berkeley, and the "she-wolf of france" already ruled england in her son's name, she went through the form of asking whether he would marry one of the young countesses. "and when they asked him, he began to laugh, and said, 'yes, i am better pleased to marry there than elsewhere; and rather to philippa, for she and i accorded excellently well together; and she wept, i know well, when i took leave of her at my departure.'" all that was needed now was a papal dispensation; for the parties were second cousins. this was, of course, a mere matter of form--or, rather, of money. towards the end of the year philippa was married by proxy at valenciennes; and on december she arrived in london, where there were "great rejoicings and noble show of lords, earls, barons, knights, highborn ladies and noble damsels, with rich display of dress and jewels, with jousts too and tourneys for the ladies' love, with dancing and carolling, and with great and rich feasts day by day; and these rejoicings endured for the space of weeks." edward was at york, resting after his first scottish campaign; so "the young queen and her meinie journeyed northwards until they came to york, where she was received with great solemnity. and all the lords of england who were in the city came forth in fair array to meet her, and with them the young king, mounted on an excellently-paced hackney, magnificently clad and arrayed; and he took her by the hand, and then embraced and kissed her; and so riding side by side, with great plenty of minstrels and honours, they entered the city and came to the queen's lodgings.... so there the young king edward wedded philippa of hainault in the cathedral church of st. william [_sic_].... and the king was seventeen years of age, and the young queen was on the point of fourteen years.... thus came the said queen philippa to england at so happy a time that the whole kingdom might well rejoice thereat, and did indeed rejoice; for since the days of queen guinevere, who was wife to king arthur and queen of england (which men called great britain in those days), so good a queen never came to that land, nor any who had so much honour, or such fair offspring; for in her time, by king edward her spouse, she had seven sons and five daughters. and, so long as she lived, the realm of england enjoyed grace, prosperity, honour, and all good fortune; nor was there ever enduring famine or dearth in the land while she reigned there.... tall and straight she was; wise, gladsome, humble, devout, free-handed, and courteous; and in her time she was richly adorned with all noble virtues, and well beloved of god and men."[ ] [illustration: philippa of hainault, from her tomb in westminster abbey (the first of the royal tombs which is an actual portrait)] so far froissart, recording events which happened some ten years before his birth, from the mouths of the actors themselves; writing lovingly, in his extreme old age, of his first and noblest patroness, and proudly as a dane might write thirty years hence of the princess who had come from his own home to win all hearts in england.[ ] from other chroniclers, and from dry official documents, we may throw interesting sidelights on these more living memorials. one such document, however, is as living as a page from froissart himself, in spite of--or shall we say, because of?--its essentially business character and the legal caution of phrase in which the writer has wrapped up his direct personal impressions. the official register of the ill-fated bishop stapledon, of exeter, so soon to expiate at the hands of a london mob his loyal ministerial service to edward ii., is in the main like other episcopal registers--a record of ordinations, institutions, dispensations, lawsuits, and more or less unsuccessful attempts to reduce his clergy to canonical discipline.[ ] but it contains, under the date of (p. ), an entry which has, so far as i know, been strangely overlooked hitherto by historians. the latin title runs, "inspection and description of the daughter of the count of hainault, philippa by name." to this a later hand, probably that of the succeeding bishop, has added: "she was queen of england, wife to edward iii." the document itself, which is in norman-french, runs as follows: "the lady whom we saw has not uncomely hair, betwixt blue-black and brown. her head is clean-shaped; her forehead high and broad, and standing somewhat forward. her face narrows between the eyes, and the lower part of her face still more narrow and slender than the forehead. her eyes are blackish-brown and deep. her nose is fairly smooth and even, save that it is somewhat broad at the tip and also flattened, yet it is no snub-nose. her nostrils are also broad, her mouth fairly wide. her lips somewhat full, and especially the lower lip. her teeth which have fallen and grown again are white enough, but the rest are not so white. the lower teeth project a little beyond the upper; yet this is but little seen. her ears and chin are comely enough. her neck, shoulders, and all her body and lower limbs are reasonably well shapen; all her limbs are well set and unmaimed; and nought is amiss so far as a man may see. moreover, she is brown of skin all over, and much like her father; and in all things she is pleasant enough, as it seems to us. and the damsel will be of the age of nine years on st. john's day next to come, as her mother saith. she is neither too tall nor too short for such an age; she is of fair carriage, and well taught in all that becometh her rank, and highly esteemed and well beloved of her father and mother and of all her meinie, in so far as we could inquire and learn the truth." cannot we here see, through the bishop's dry and measured phrases, a figure scarcely less living and attractive than froissart shows us? but the register corrects the historian just where we should expect to find him at fault. "the noble and worthy lady my mistress" would scarcely have told froissart how much state policy there had been in the marriage, true love-match as it had been in spite of all. the old bishop, before whose face she had trembled, and laughed again behind his back with her sisters; his invidious comparisons between her first and second teeth; his business-like collection of backstairs gossip, which some more confidential maid-of-honour must surely have whispered to her mistress--of all this the noble lady naturally breathed no syllable to her devoted clerk. but, apart from the official record in the secret archives of exeter diocese, a vague memory of it all was kept alive in men's minds by that most efficacious of historical preservatives--a broad jest. the rhyming chronicler hardyng, whose life overlapped froissart's and chaucer's by several years, records a good deal of court gossip, especially about edward iii.'s family. he writes[ ]-- "he sent forth then to hainault for a wife a bishop and other lordës temporal, where, in chamber privy and secret at discovered, dishevelled also in all, as seeming was to estate virginal. among themselves our lords, for his prudence of the bishop asked counsel and sentence. "which daughter of the five should be the queen. who counselled thus, with sad avisëment 'we will have her with good hippës, i mean, for she will bear good sons, to mine intent.' to which they all accorded by assent, and chose philippa that was full feminine, as the bishop most wise did determine. "but then among themselves they laughed fast ay; the lords then said [that] the bishop couth full mickle skill of a woman alway, [was a good judge that so could choose a lady that was uncouth; [unknown and, for the merry words that came of his mouth, they trowed he had right great experience of woman's rule and their convenience." later on again, after enumerating the titles and virtues of the sons that were born of this union, hardyng continues-- "so high and large they were of all stature, the least of them was of [his] person able to have foughten with any creature single battaile in actës merciable; the bishop's wit me thinketh commendable, so well could choose the princess that them bore, for by practice he knew it, or by lore." we need find no difficulty in reconciling froissart with these other documents; edward's was a love-match, but, like all royal love-matches, subject to possible considerations of state. the first negotiations for a papal dispensation carefully avoid exact specification; the request is simply for leave to marry "one of the daughters" of hainault; only two months before the actual marriage does the final document bear philippa's name. the queen's public life--the scene before calais, and her (somewhat doubtful) presence at the battle of nevile's cross--belongs rather to the general history of england; of her private life, as of chaucer's, a great deal only flashes out here and there, meteor-wise, from account-books and similar business documents. we find, for instance, what gifts were given to the messengers who announced the births of her successive children to the king; and beltz, in his "memorials of the garter," has unearthed the name of the lady who nursed the black prince.[ ] we find edward building for his young consort the castle since called queenborough, the master-mason on this occasion being john gibbon, ancestor to the great historian. at another moment we see the earl of oxford, as chamberlain, claiming for his perquisites after the coronation philippa's bed, shoes, and three silver basins; but edward redeemed the bed for £ .[ ] this redemption is explained by divers entries in the royal accounts; in - the king owed john of cologne £ for a bed made "against the confinement of the lady philippa ... of green velvet, embroidered in gold, with red sirens, bearing a shield with the arms of england and hainault." the infant on this occasion was the short-lived william of hatfield, whose child-tomb may be seen in york cathedral. her carpets for a later confinement cost £ , but her bed only £ . and so on to the latest entries of all--the carving of her tomb at westminster; the wrought-iron hearse which the canons of st. paul's obligingly took from the tomb of bishop northbrooke and sold for that of the queen at the price of £ ;[ ] lastly, the rich "mortuary" accruing to the chapter of york minster, who got for their perquisite the bed on which philippa had breathed her last, and had its rich hangings cut up into "thirteen copes, six tunics and one chasuble."[ ] but here let us turn back to froissart, who, under the year , turns suddenly aside from his chronicle of battles and sieges, to pay a heartfelt tribute to his first benefactress. "now let us speak of the death of the gentlest queen, the most liberal and courteous of all who reigned in her time, my lady philippa of hainault, queen of england and ireland: god pardon her and all others! in these days ... there came to pass in england a thing common enough, but exceedingly pitiful this time for the king and her children and the whole land; for the good lady the queen of england, who had done so much good in her lifetime and succoured so many knights, ladies, and damsels, and given and distributed so freely among all people, and who had ever loved so naturally those of her own native land of hainault, lay grievously sick in the castle of windsor; and her sickness lay so hard upon her that it waxed more and more grievous, and her last end drew near. when therefore this good lady and queen knew that she must die, she sent for the king her husband; and, when he was come into her presence, she drew her right hand from under the coverlet and put it into the right hand of the king, who was sore grieved in his heart; and thus spake the good lady: 'my lord, heaven be thanked that we have spent our days in peace and joy and prosperity; wherefore i pray that you will grant me three boons at this my departure.' the king, weeping and sobbing, answered and said, 'ask, lady, for they are granted.' 'my lord, i pray for all sorts of good folk with whom in time past i have dealt for their merchandize, both on this and on that side of the sea, that ye will easily trust their word for that wherein i am bound to them, and pay full quittance for me. next, that ye will keep and accomplish all ordinances which i have made, and all legacies which i have bequeathed, both to churches on either side of the sea where i have paid my devotions, and to the squires and damsels who have served me. thirdly, my lord, i pray that ye will choose no other sepulture than to lie by my side in the abbey of westminster, when god's will shall be done on you.' the king answered weeping, 'lady, i grant it you.' then made the queen the sign of the true cross on him, and commended the king to god, and likewise the lord thomas her youngest son, who was by her side; and then within a brief space she yielded up her ghost, which (as i firmly believe) the holy angels of paradise seized and carried with great joy to the glory of heaven; for never in her life did she nor thought she any thing whereby she might lose it." as the good queen's beloved bed-hangings were dispersed in fragments among the canons of york, so her dying benedictions would seem to have been scattered no less widely to the winds. one of the servants so tenderly commended to the king's care was chaucer's wife; but another was alice perrers, whom edward had already noted with favour, and who now took more or less openly the dead queen's place. men aged rapidly in those days; and, as edward trod the descending slope of life, his manly will weakened and left little but the animal behind. philippa was scarcely cold in her grave when alice perrers, decked in her mistress's jewels, was masquerading at royal tournaments as the lady of the sun. presently she was sitting openly at the judge's side in the law courts; the king's shame was the common talk of his subjects; and even the formal protests of parliament failed to separate her from the doting old king, from whom on his death-bed she kept the clergy away until his speech was gone. then, having stolen the very rings from his fingers, she left him to a priest who could only infer repentance from his groans and tears. thomas of woodstock, the queen's benjamin, fared not much better. he became the selfish and overbearing leader of the opposition to richard ii., and was at last secretly murdered by order of the royal nephew whom he had bullied more or less successfully for twenty years. chapter xv knights and squires "'but teach me,' quoth the knight; 'and, by christ, i will assay!' 'by st. paul,' quoth perkin, 'ye proffer you so fair that i shall work and sweat, and sow for us both, and other labours do for thy love, all my lifetime, in covenant that thou keep holy church and myself from wasters and from wicked men, that this world destroy; and go hunt hardily to hares and foxes, to boars and to badgers that break down my hedges; and go train thy falcons wild-fowl to kill, for such come to my croft and crop my wheat.'" "piers plowman," b., vi., the theory of chivalry, which itself owes much to pre-christian morality, lies at the roots of the modern conception of gentility. the essence of perfect knighthood was fearless strength, softened by charity and consecrated by faith. a certain small and select class had (it was held) a hereditary right to all the best things of this world, and the concomitant duty of using with moderation for themselves and giving freely to others. essentially exclusive and jealous of its privileges, the chivalric ideal was yet the highest possible in a society whose very foundations rested on caste distinctions, and where bondmen were more numerous than freemen. the world will always be the richer for it; but we must not forget that, like the finest flower of greek and roman culture, it postulated a servile class; the many must needs toil and groan and bleed in order that the few might have grace and freedom to grow to their individual perfection. in its finest products it may extort unwilling admiration even from the most convinced democrat-- "often i find myself saying, old faith and doctrine abjuring, ... were it not well that the stem should be naked of leaf and of tendril, poverty-stricken, the barest, the dismallest stick of the garden; flowerless, leafless, unlovely, for ninety-and-nine long summers, so in the hundredth, at last, were bloom for one day at the summit, so but that fleeting flower were lovely as lady maria?"[ ] when, however, we look closer into the system, and turn from theory to practice, then we find again those glaring inconsistencies which meet us nearly everywhere in medieval society. a close study even of such a panegyrist as froissart compels us to look to some other age than his for the spirit of perfect chivalry; and many writers would place the palmy days of knighthood in the age of st. louis. here again, however, we find the same difficulty; for in joinville himself there are many jarring notes, and other records of the period are still less flattering to knightly society. the most learned of modern apologists for the middle ages, léon gautier, is driven to put back the golden age one century further, thus implying that francis and dominic, aquinas and dante, the glories of westminster and amiens, the saintly king who dealt justice under the oak of vincennes, and twice led his armies oversea against the heathen, all belonged to an age of decadence in chivalry. yet, even at this sacrifice, the golden age escapes us. when we go back to the middle of the th century we find st. bernard's contemporaries branding the chivalry of their times as shamelessly untrue to its traditional code. "the order of knighthood" (writes peter of blois in his th epistle) "is nowadays mere disorder.... knights of old bound themselves by an oath to stand by the state, not to flee from battle, and to prefer the public welfare to their own lives. nay, even in these present days candidates for knighthood take their swords from the altar as a confession that they are sons of the church, and that the blade is given to them for the honour of the priesthood, the defence of the poor, the chastisement of evil-doers, and the deliverance of their country. but all goes by contraries; for nowadays, from the moment when they are honoured with the knightly belt, they rise up against the lord's anointed and rage against the patrimony of the crucified. they rob and despoil christ's poor, afflicting the wretched miserably and without mercy, that from other men's pain they may gratify their unlawful appetites and their wanton pleasures.... they who should have used their strength against christ's enemies fight now in their cups and drunkenness, waste their time in sloth, moulder in debauchery, and dishonour the name and office of knighthood by their degenerate lives." this was about . a couple of generations earlier we get an equally unfavourable impression from the learned and virtuous abbot, guibert of nogent. further back, again, the evidence is still more damning; and nobody would seriously seek the golden age of chivalry in the th century. it is indeed a mirage; and peter of blois in , cardinal jacques de vitry in , who so disadvantageously contrasted the knighthood of their own time with that of the past, were simply victims of a common delusion. they despaired too lightly of the actual world, and sought refuge too credulously in an imaginary past. even if, in medieval fashion, we trace this institution back to romulus, to david, to joshua, or to adam himself, we shall, after all, find it nowhere more flourishing than in the first half of the th century, imperfectly as its code was kept even then. by the end of that century, however, two great causes were at work which made for the decay of chivalry. before dante had begun to write, the real crusades were over--or, indeed, even before dante was born--for the two expeditions led by st. louis were small compared with others in the past. in the emperor frederick ii. had recovered from the infidel by treaty those holy places which coeur-de-lion had in vain attempted to storm; and this had dealt a severe blow to the old traditions. again, during the years that followed, the pope did not hesitate to attack his enemy the emperor, even in the holy land; so that, while christian fought against christian over christ's grave, the turk stepped in and reconquered jerusalem ( ). lastly, his successors, while they regularly raised enormous taxes and contributions for the reconquest of palestine, systematically spent them on their own private ambitions or personal pleasures. before the th century was out the last christian fortress had been taken, and there was nothing now to show for two centuries of bloodshed. under these repeated shocks men began to lose faith in the crusading principle. a couple of generations before chaucer's birth, etienne de bourbon complained that the upper classes "not only did not take the cross, but scoffed at the lower orders when they did so" (p. ). in france, after the disastrous failure of st. louis's first expedition, the rabble said that mahomet was now stronger than christ.[ ] edward iii. and his rival, philippe de valois, did for a moment propose to go and free the holy land in concert, but hardly seriously. chaucer's knight had indeed fought in asia minor, but mainly against european pagans in spain and on the shores of the baltic; and, irreproachable as his motives were in this particular instance, gower shows scant sympathy for those which commonly prompted crusades of this kind.[ ] a still more fatal cause of the decay of chivalry, perhaps, lay in the growing prosperity of the merchant class. even distinguished historians have written misleadingly concerning the ideal of material prosperity and middle-class comfort, as though it had been born only with the reformation. it seems in fact an inseparable bye-product of civilization: whether healthy or unhealthy need not be discussed here. as the dark ages brightened into the middle ages, as mere club-law grew weaker and weaker, so the longing for material comforts grew stronger and stronger. the great monasteries were among the leaders in this as in so many other respects. in th-century england, the nearest approach to the comfort of a modern household would probably have been found either in rich jews' houses or in the more favoured parts of abbeys like bury and st. albans. already in the th century the merchant class begins to come definitely to the fore. as the early th-century _renart le contrefait_ complains-- "bourgeois du roi est pair et comte; de tous états portent l'honneur. riches bourgeois sont bien seigneurs!"[ ] italy and the south of france were particularly advanced in this respect; and dante's paternal house was probably richer in material comforts than any castle or palace in england, as his surroundings were in many other ways more civilized. even the feudal aristocracy, as will presently be seen, learned much in these ways from the citizen-class: and, meanwhile, a slow but sure intermingling process began between the two classes themselves. first only by way of abuse, but presently by open procedure of law, the rich plebeian began to buy for himself the sacred rank of knighthood. long before the end of the th century, there were districts of france in which rich citizens claimed knighthood as their inalienable right. in england, the order was cheapened by edward i.'s statute of _distraint of knighthood_ ( ), in which some have seen a deliberate purpose to undermine the feudal nobility. by this law, all freeholders possessing an estate of £ a year were not only permitted, but compelled to become knights; and the superficiality of the strict chivalric ideal is shown clearly by the facts that such a law could ever be passed, and that men tried so persistently to evade it. if knighthood had been in reality, even at the end of the th century, anything like what its formal codes represent, then no such attempt as this could have been made in by a king humbly devoted to the church--for, as early as that year, henry iii. had anticipated his son's enactments. where royal statutes and popular tendencies work together against an ancient institution, it soon begins to crumble away; and the knighthood which chaucer knew was far removed from that of a few generations before. we read in "piers plowman" that, while "poor gentle blood" is refused, "soapsellers and their sons for silver have been knights." an italian contemporary, sacchetti, complains that he has seen knighthood conferred on "mechanics, artisans, even bakers; nay, worse still, on woolcarders, usurers, and cozening ribalds"; and eustache deschamps speaks scarcely less strongly.[ ] several th-century mayors of london were knighted, including john chaucer's fellow-vintner picard, and geoffrey's colleagues at the customs, walworth, brembre, and philipot. but brembre and philipot, sir walter besant has reminded us, were probably members of old country families, who had come to seek their fortunes in london.[ ] true; but this only shows us the decay of chivalry on another side. nothing could be more honourable, or better in the long run for the country, than that there should be such a double current of circulation, fresh healthy blood flowing from the country manor to the london counting-house, and hard cash trickling back again from the city to the somewhat impoverished manor. it was magnificent, but it was not chivalry, at any rate in the medieval sense. gower reminded his readers that even civil law forbade the knight to become merchant or trader; but the movement was far too strong to be checked by law. the old families had lost heavily by the crusades, by the natural subdivision of estates, and by their own extravagance. moreover, the growing luxury of the times made them feel still more acutely the limitation of their incomes; and the moneylenders of chaucer's day found their best customers among country magnates. "the city usurer," writes gower, "keeps on hire his brokers and procurers, who search for knights, vavasours and squires. when these have mortgaged their lands, and are driven by need to borrow, then these rascals lead them to the usurers; and presently that trick will be played which in modern jargon is called the _chevisance_ of money.... ah! what a bargain, which thus enriches the creditor and will ruin the debtor!"[ ] in an age which knew knight-errantry no longer, nothing but the most careful husbandry could secure the old families in their former pre-eminence; and well it was for england that these were early forced by bitter experience to recognise the essential dignity of honest commerce. edward i., under the financial pressure of his great wars, insisted that he was "free to buy and sell like any other." all the kings were obliged to travel from one royal manor to another, as m. jusserand has pointed out, from sheer motives of economy.[ ] we have already seen how edward iii., even in his pleasures, kept business accounts with a regularity which earned him a sneer from king john of france. the cistercians, who were probably the richest religious body in england, owed their wealth mainly to their success in the wool trade. but perhaps the most curious evidence of this kind may be found in the invaluable collections from the berkeley papers made in the th century by john smyth of nibley, and published by the bristol and gloucester archæological society. we there find a series of great barons, often holding distinguished offices in peace or war, but always exploiting their estates with a dogged unity of purpose which a lombard might have envied. thomas i., who held the barony from to , showed his business foresight by letting a great deal of land on copyhold. his son ( - ) was "a careful husband, and strict in all his bargains." this thomas ii., who served with distinction in twenty-eight campaigns, kept in his own hands from thirteen to twenty manors, farming them with the most meticulous care. his accounts show that "when this lord was free from foreign employment, he went often in progress from one of his manors and farmhouses to another, scarce two miles asunder, making his stay at each of them for one or two nights, overseeing and directing the above-mentioned husbandries." lady berkeley went on similar rounds from manor to manor in order to inspect the dairies. smyth gives amusing instances of the baron's frugalities, side by side with his generosity. he followed a policy of sub-letting land in tail to tenants, calculating "that the heirs of such donees being within age should be in ward to him, ... and so the profit of the land to become his own again, and the value of the marriage also to boot": a calculation which the reader will presently be in a better position to understand. he "would not permit any freeman's widow to marry again unless she first made fine with him" (one poor creature who protested against this rule was fined £ in modern money); and he fixed a custom, which survived for centuries on his manors, of seizing into his own hands the estates of all copyholders' widows who re-married, or were guilty of incontinence. he vowed a crusade, but never performed it; his grandson paid a knight £ to go instead of the dead baron. lady berkeley's "elder years were weak and sickly, part of whose physic was sawing of billets and sticks, for which cause she had before her death yearly bought certain fine hand-saws, which she used in her chamber, and which commonly cost twopence a piece." [illustration: sir geoffrey louterell with his wife and daughter (louterell psalter. early th century.)] maurice iii. ( - ) continued, or rather improved upon, his father's exact methods. thomas iii. ( - ) was almost as great a warrior as his grandfather, though less fortunate. froissart tells in his own picturesque style how he pressed so far forward at poitiers as to get himself badly wounded and taken prisoner, and how the squire who took him bought himself a knighthood out of the ransom. (globe ed., p. ). even more significant, perhaps, are the royal commissions by which this lord was deputed to raise men for the great war, and to which i shall have occasion to refer later on. but, amidst all this public business, thomas found time to farm himself about eighty manors! like his grandfather, he was blessed with an equally business-like helpmeet, for when he was abroad on business or war, "his good and frugal lady withdrew herself for the most part to her houses of least resort and receipt, whether for her retirement or frugality, i determine not." the doubt here expressed must be merely rhetorical, for smyth later on records how she had a new gown made for herself "of cloth furred throughout with coney-skins out of the kitchen." indeed, most of the cloth and fur for the robes of this great household came from the estate itself. "in each manor, and almost upon each farmhouse, he had a pigeon-house, and in divers manors two, and in hame and a few others three; from each house he drew yearly great numbers, as , , , , , from an house; and from hame in one year young pigeons." these figures serve to explain how the baronial pigeons, preying on the crops, and so sacred that no man might touch them on pain of life or limb, became one of the chief causes which precipitated the french revolution. like his grandfather--and indeed like all feudal lords, from the king downwards--he found justice a profitable business. he "often held in one year four leets or views of frankpledge in berkeley borough, wherefrom, imposing fourpence and sixpence upon a brewing of ale, and renting out the toll or profit of the wharfage and market there to the lord of the town, he drew yearly from that art more than the rent of the borough."[ ] again, he dealt in wardships, buying of edward iii. "for marks ... the marriage of the heir of john de la ware, with the profits of his lands, until the full age of the heir." he carried his business habits into every department of life. in founding a chantry at newport he provided expressly by deed that the priest "should live chastely and honestly, and not come to markets, ale-houses, or taverns, neither should frequent plays or unlawful games; in a word, he made this his priest by these ordinances to be one of those honest men whom we mistakenly call _puritans_ in these our days." the accounts of his tournaments are most interesting, and throw a still clearer light on king john's sneer. smyth notes that this lord was a most enthusiastic jouster, and gives two years as examples from the accounts ( st and nd ed. iii.). yet, in all the six tournaments which lord thomas attended in those two years, he spent only £ _s._, or £ _s._ per tournament; and this at a time when he was saving money at the rate of £ a year, an economy which he nearly trebled later on.[ ] he evidently knew, however, that a heavy outlay upon occasion will repay itself with interest, for we find him paying £ for a tower in his castle; and, whereas the park fence had hitherto been of thorn, new-made every three years, lord thomas went to the expense of an oaken paling. maurice iv. ( - ), "in husbandry his father's true apprentice," not only made considerable quantities of wine, cider, and perry from his gardens at berkeley, but turned an honest penny by selling the apples which had grown under the castle windows. warned by failing health, he tried to secure the fortune of his eldest son, aged fourteen, by marrying him to the heiress of lord lisle. the girl was then only seven, so it was provided that she should live on in her father's house for four years after the wedding. maurice soon died, and lord lisle bought from the king the wardship of his youthful son-in-law for £ a year--that is, for about a sixth of the whole revenue of the estates. this young thomas iv., having at last become his own master ( - ), "fell into the old course of his father's and grandfather's husbandries." among other thrifty bargains, he "bought of henry talbot twenty-four scottish prisoners, taken by him upon the land by the seaside, in way of war, as the king's enemies."[ ] he left an only heiress, the broad lands were divided, and the long series of exact stewards' accounts breaks suddenly off. the heir to the peerage, lord james berkeley, being involved in perpetual lawsuits, became "a continual borrower, and often of small sums; yea, of church vestments and altar-goods." not until did the good husbandry begin again. it is probable that these berkeleys were an exceptionally business-like family; but there is similar evidence for other great households, and the intimate history of our noble families is far from justifying that particular view of chivalry which has lately found its most brilliant exponent in william morris. the custom of modern florence, where you may ring at a marble palace and buy from the porter a bottle of the marquis's own wine, is simply a legacy of the middle ages.[ ] the english nobles of chaucer's day were of course far behind their florentine brethren in this particular direction; but that current was already flowing strongly which, a century later, was to create a new nobility of commerce and wealth in england. the direct effect of the great french war on chivalry must be reserved for discussion in another chapter; but it is pertinent to point out here one indirect, though very potent, influence. apart from the business-like way in which towns were pillaged, the custom of ransoming prisoners imported a very definite commercial element into knightly life. in the wars of the th and early th centuries, when the knights and their mounted retainers formed the backbone of the army on both sides, and were sometimes almost the only combatants, it is astounding to note how few were killed even in decisive battles. at tinchebrai ( ), which gave henry i. the whole duchy of normandy, "the knights were mostly admitted to quarter; only a few escaped; the rest, in all, were taken prisoners.... not a single knight on henry's side had been slain." at the "crushing defeat" of brenville, three years later, " knights were captured, but only three slain in the battle." at bouvines, one of the greatest and most decisive battles of the middle ages ( ), even the vanquished lost only knights out of . at lincoln, in , the victors lost but one knight, and the vanquished apparently only two, though were captured; and even at lewes ( ) the captives were far more numerous than the slain.[ ] it was, in fact, difficult to kill a fully-armed man except by cutting his throat as he lay on the ground, and from this the victors were generally deterred not only by the freemasonry which reigned among knights and squires of all nations, but still more by the wicked waste of money involved in such a proceeding. "many a good prisoner" is a common phrase from froissart's pen; and, in recounting the battle of poitiers, he laments that the archers "slew in that affray many men who could not come to ransom or mercy." though both this and the parallel phrase which he uses at crécy leave us in doubt which thought was uppermost in his mind, yet he speaks with unequivocal frankness about the slaughter of aljubarrota: "lo! behold the great evil adventure that befel that saturday; for they slew as many prisoners as would well have been worth, one with another, four hundred thousand franks!"[ ] in the days when the great chronicler of chivalry wrote thus, why should not lord berkeley deal in scottish prisoners as his modern descendant might deal in canadian pacifics? it is, indeed, a fatal misapprehension to assume that a society in which coin was necessarily scarce was therefore more indifferent to money than our own age of millionaires and multi-millionaires. the underlying fallacy is scarcely less patent than that which prompted a disappointed mistress to say of her cook, "i _did_ think she was honest, for she couldn't even read or write!" chaucer's contemporaries blamed the prevalent mammon-worship even more loudly and frequently than men do now, with as much sincerity perhaps, and certainly with even more cause. bribery was rampant in every part of th-century society, especially among the highest officials and in the church. chaucer's satire on the archdeacon's itching palm is more than borne out by official documents; and his contemporaries speak even more bitterly of the venality of justice in general. how, indeed, could it be otherwise, in an age when the right of holding courts was notoriously sought mainly for its pecuniary advantages? in "piers plowman," lady meed (or, in modern slang, the almighty dollar) rules everywhere, and not least in the law courts. gower speaks no less plainly. the judges (he says) are commonly swayed by gifts and personal considerations: "men say, and i believe it, that justice nowadays is in the balance of gold, which hath so great virtue; for, if i give more than thou, thy right is not worth a straw. right without gifts is of no avail with judges."[ ] what gower recorded in the most pointed latin and french he could muster, the people whose voice he claimed to echo wrote after their own rough fashion in blood. the peasants who rose in fastened first of all upon what seemed their worst enemies. "then began they to show forth in deeds part of their inmost purpose, and to behead in revenge all and every lawyer in the land, from the half-fledged pleader to the aged justice, together with all the jurors of the country whom they could catch. for they said that all such must first be slain before the land could enjoy true freedom."[ ] chapter xvi husbands at the church door "io ho uno grandissimo dubbio di voi, ch'io mi credo che se ne salvino tanti pochi di quegli che sono in istato di matrimonio, che de' mille, novecento novantanove credo che sia matrimonio del diavolo."--st. bernardino of siena, sermon xix but we have as yet considered only one side of chivalry. while blushing, like gibbon, to unite such discordant names, let us yet remember that the knight was "the champion of god _and the ladies_," and may therefore fairly claim to be judged in this latter capacity also. even here, however, we find him in practice just as far below either his avowed ideal or the too favourable pictures of later romance. the feudal system, with which knighthood was in fact bound up, precluded chivalry to women in its full modern sense. land was necessarily held by personal service; therefore the woman, useless in war, must necessarily be given with her land to some man able to defend it and her. as even gautier admits, the woman was too often a mere appendage of the fief; and he quotes from a _chanson de geste_, in which the emperor says to a favoured knight-- "un de ces jours mourra un de mes pairs; toute la terre vous en voudrai donner, et la moiller, si prendre la voulez." [femme though he is perhaps right in pleading that, as time went on, the compulsion was rather less barefaced than this, he is still compelled sadly to acknowledge of the average medieval match in high life that "after all, whatever may be said, those are not the conditions of a truly free marriage, or, to speak plainly, of a truly christian one." from this initial defect two others followed almost as a matter of course: the extreme haste with which marriages were concluded, and the indecently early age at which children were bound for life to partners whom they had very likely never seen. gautier quotes from another _chanson de geste_, where a heroine, within a month of her first husband's death, remarries again on the very day on which her second bridegroom is proposed and introduced to her for the first time; and the poet adds, "great was the joy and laughter that day!" the extreme promptitude with which the wife of bath provided herself with a new husband--or, for the matter of that, chaucer's own mother--is characteristically medieval. [illustration: brass of sir john and lady harsyck (from southacre church, norfolk ( )) (for the lady's cote-hardie and buttons, see p. , note . her dress is here embroidered with her own arms and sir john's.)] but child-marriages were the real curse of medieval home-life in high society. the immaturity of the parents could not fail to tell often upon the children; and when berthold of regensburg pointed out how brief was the average of life among the th-century nobility, and ascribed this to god's vengeance for their heartlessness towards the poor, he might more truly have traced the cause much further back. "in days of old," wrote a _trouvère_ of the th century, "nobles married at a mature age; faith and loyalty then reigned everywhere. but nowadays avarice and luxury are rampant, and two infants of twelve years old are wedded together: take heed lest they breed children!"[ ] the church did, indeed, refuse to recognize the bond of marriage if contracted before both parties had turned seven; and she further forbade the making of such contracts until the age of twelve for the girl and fifteen for the boy, though without daring, in this case, to impugn the validity of the marriage once contracted. that the weaker should be allowed to marry three years earlier than the stronger sex is justified by at least one great canon lawyer on the principle that "ill weeds grow apace"; a decision on which one would gladly have heard the comments of the wife of bath.[ ] but "people let the church protest, and married at any age they pleased"; for it was seldom indeed that the ecclesiastical prohibition was enforced against influence or wealth, and the church herself, theory apart, was directly responsible for many of the worst abuses in this matter. her determination to keep the whole marriage-law in her own hands, combined with her readiness to sell dispensations from her own regulations, resulted in a state of things almost incredible. on the one hand, a marriage was nullified by cousinship to the fourth degree, and even by the fact of the contracting parties having ever stood as sponsors to the same child, unless a papal dispensation had been bought; and this absurd severity not only nullified in theory half the peasants' marriages (since nearly everybody is more or less related in a small village), but gave rise to all sorts of tricks for obtaining fraudulent divorces. to quote again from gautier, who tries all through to put the best possible face on the matter: "after a few years of marriage, a husband who had wearied of his wife could suddenly discover that they were related ... and here was a revival, under canonical and pious forms, of the ancient practice of divorce." it is the greatest mistake to suppose that divorce was a difficult matter in the middle ages; it was simply a question of money, as honest men frequently complained. the church courts were ready to "make and unmake matrimony for money"; and "for a mantle of miniver" a man might get rid of his lawful wife.[ ] an actual instance is worth many generalities. in the first quarter of the th century a pope allowed the king and queen of france to separate because they had _once_ been godparents to the same child; and at the same time sold a dispensation to a rich citizen who had _twice_ contracted the same relationship to the lady whom he now wished to marry. the collocation, in this case, was piquant enough to beget a clever pasquinade, which was chalked up at street corners in paris. john xxii. probably laughed with the rest, and went on as before. on the one hand, then, the marriage law was theoretically of the utmost strictness, though only to the poor man; but, on the other hand, it was of the most incredible laxity. a boy of fifteen and a girl of twelve might, at any time and in any place, not only without leave of parents, but against all their wishes, contract an indissoluble marriage by mere verbal promise, without any priestly intervention whatever. in other words, the whole world in chaucer's time was a vaster and more commodious gretna green.[ ] moreover, not only the civil power, but apparently even the church, sometimes hesitated to enforce even such legal precautions as existed against scandalous child-marriages. a stock case is quoted at length in the contemporary "life of st. hugh of lincoln" (r.s., pp. - ), and fully corroborated by official documents. a wretched child who had just turned four was believed to be an heiress; a great noble took her to wife. he died two years later; she was at once snapped up by a second noble; and on his death, when she was apparently still only eleven, and certainly not much older, she was bought for marks by a third knightly bridegroom. the bishop, though he excommunicated the first husband, and deprived the priest who had openly married him "in the face of the church," apparently made no attempt to declare the marriage null; and the third husband was still enjoying her estate twenty years after his wedding-day. in the face of instances like this (for another, scarcely less startling, may be found in luce's "du guesclin," p. ), we need no longer wonder that our poet's father was carried off in his earliest teens to be married by force to some girl perhaps even younger; or that in chaucer's own time, when the middle classes were rapidly gaining more power in the state, parliament legislated expressly against the frequent offences of this kind. but the real root of the evil remained; so long as two children might, in a moment and without any religious ceremony whatever, pledge their persons and their properties for life, no legislation could be permanently effectual. from the moral side, we find church councils fulminating desperately against the celebration of marriages in private houses or taverns, sometimes even after midnight, and with the natural concomitants of riot and excess. from the purely civil side, again, apart from runaway or irregular matches, there was also the scandalous frequency of formal child-marriages which were often the only security for the transmission of property; and here even the church admitted the thin end of the wedge by permitting espousals "of children in their cradles," by way of exception, "for the sake of peace."[ ] let me quote here again from smyth's "lives of the berkeleys." we there find, between and , five marriages in which the ten contracting parties averaged less than eleven years. maurice the third, born in , was only eight years old when he married a wife apparently of the same age; their eldest child was born before the father was fifteen; and the loyal smyth comforts himself by reciting from holy scripture the still more precocious examples of josiah and solomon. it would be idle to multiply instances of so notorious a fact; but let us take one more case which touched all england, and must have come directly under chaucer's notice. when the good queen anne of bohemia was dead, for whose sake richard ii. would never afterwards live in his palace of shene, it was yet necessary for his policy to take another wife. he chose the little daughter of the french king, then only seven years old, in spite of the remonstrances of his subjects. the pair were affianced by proxy in ; "and then (as i have been told) it was pretty to see her, young as she was; for she very well knew already how to play the queen." next year, the two kings met personally between guines and ardres, the later "field of the cloth of gold," and sat down to meat together. "then said the duc de bourbon many joyous and merry words to make the kings laugh.... and he spake aloud, addressing himself to the king of england, 'my lord king of england, you should make good cheer; you have all that you desire and ask; you have your wife, or shall have; she shall be delivered to you!' then said the king of france, 'cousin of bourbon, we would that our daughter were as old as our cousin the lady de st. pol. she would bear the more love to our son the king of england, and it would have cost us a heavy dowry.' the king of england heard and understood this speech; wherefore he answered, inclining himself towards the king of france (though, indeed, the word had been addressed to the duke, since the king had made the comparison of the daughter of the comte de st. pol), 'fair father, we are well pleased with the present age of our wife, and we love not so much that she should be of great age as we take account of the love and alliance of our own selves and our kingdoms; for when we shall be at one accord and alliance together, there is no king in christendom or elsewhere who could gainsay us.'"[ ] the royal pair proceeded at once to calais, and the formal wedding took place three days later in the old church of st. nicholas, which to ruskin was a perpetual type of "the links unbroken between the past and present." what kings were obliged to do at one time for political purposes, they would do at other times for money; and their subjects followed suit. as one of the authors of "piers plowman" puts it, the marriage choice should depend on personal qualities, and christ will then bless it with sufficient prosperity. "but few folk now follow this; for they give their children for covetise of chattels and cunning chapmen; of kin nor of kindred account men but little ... let her be unlovely, unlovesome abed, a bastard, a bondmaid, a beggar's daughter, that no courtesy can; but let her be known for rich or well-rented, though she be wrinkled for elde, there is no squire nor knight in country about, but will bow to that bondmaid, to bid her an husband, and wedden her for her wealth; and wish on the morrow that his wife were wax, or a wallet-full of nobles!"[ ] moreover, this picture is abundantly borne out by plain facts and plain speech from other quarters. richard ii.'s first marriage, which turned out so happily when the boy of sixteen and the girl of fifteen had grown to know each other, was, in its essence, a bargain of pounds, shillings, and pence. a contemporary chronicler, recording how richard offered an immense sum for her in order to outbid his royal brother of france, heads his whole account of the transaction with the plain words, "the king buys himself a wife."[ ] gaston, count of foix, whom froissart celebrates as a mirror of courtesy among contemporary princes, had a little ward of twelve whose hand was coveted by the great duc de berri, verging on his fiftieth year. but gaston came most unwillingly to the point: "yet was he not unwilling to suffer that the marriage should take place, but he intended to have a good sum of florins; not that he put forward that he meant to sell the lady, but he wished to be rewarded for his wardship, since he had had and nourished her for some nine years and a half, wherefore he required thirty thousand francs for her."[ ] dr. gairdner has cited equally plain language used in the following century by a member of the noble family of scrope, whose estate had become much impoverished. "'for very need,' he writes, 'i was fain to sell a little daughter i have for much less than i should have done by possibility'--a considerable point in his complaint being evidently the lowness of the price he got for his own child." down to the very lowest rung of the social ladder, marriage was to a great extent a matter of money; and if we could look into the manor-rolls of chaucer's perfect gentle knight, we should find that one source of his income was a tax on each poor serf for leave to take a fellow-bondmaid to his bosom.[ ] if, on the other hand, the pair dispensed with any marriage ceremony, then they must pay a heavy fine to the archdeacon. yet, even so, marriage was not business-like enough for some satirists. chaucer's fellow-poet, eustache deschamps, echoes the complaint, already voiced in the "roman de la rose," that one never buys a horse or other beast without full knowledge of all its points, whereas one takes a wife like a pig in a poke.[ ] the complaint has, of course, been made before and since; but bishop stapledon's register may testify that it was seldom less justified than in chaucer's time. such was one side of marriage in the days of chivalry. a woman could inherit property, but seldom defend it. the situation was too tempting to man's cupidity; and no less temptation was offered by the equally helpless class of orphans. a wardship, which in our days is generally an honourable and thankless burden, was in chaucer's time a lucrative and coveted windfall. in london the city customs granted a guardian, for his trouble, ten per cent. of the ward's property every year.[ ] this was an open bargain which, in the hands of an honourable citizen, restored to the ward his patrimony with increase, but gave the guardian enough profit to make such wardships a coveted privilege even among well-to-do citizens. elsewhere, where the customs were probably less precisely marked--and certainly the legal checks were fewer--wardships were treated even more definitely as profitable windfalls. we have seen how the baron of berkeley paid £ , in modern money for a single ward; chaucer, as we know from a contemporary document, made some £ out of his, and gaston de foix a proportionately greater sum. moreover, even great persons did not blush to buy and sell wardships, from the king downwards. the above-quoted stephen scrope, who sold his own daughter as a matter of course, is indignant with his guardian, sir john fastolf, who had sold him to the virtuous chief justice gascoigne for marks, "through which sale i took a sickness that kept me a thirteen or fourteen years ensuing; whereby i am disfigured in my person, and shall be whilst i live." gascoigne had purchased scrope for one of his own daughters. fastolf bought him back again to avoid such a _mésalliance_; but the costs of each transfer, and something more, came out of the hapless ward's estate. "he bought and sold me as a beast, against all right and law, to mine own hurt more than a thousand marks." moreover, the means that were taken to avoid such disastrous wardships became themselves one of the most active of the many forces which undermined the strict code of chivalry. a knight, in theory, was capable of looking after himself; therefore careful and influential parents like the berkeleys sought to protect their heirs by knighthood from falling into wardships as minors, in defiance of the rule which placed the earliest limit at twenty-one. thus maurice de berkeley (iv.) was knighted in at the age of seven, and one of his descendants in at the age of five; and eustache deschamps complains of the practice as one of the open sores of contemporary chivalry-- "et encore plus me confond, ce que chevaliers se font plusieurs trop petitement, qui dix ou qui sept ans n'ont."[ ] the practice shows equally clearly how hollow the dignity was becoming, and how little an unprotected child could count upon chivalric consideration, in the proper sense of the word. nor can these bargains in women and orphans be treated as a mere accident; they formed an integral part of medieval life, and influenced deeply all social relations. the men who bought their wives like chattels were only too likely to treat them accordingly. take from the th and early th centuries two well-known instances, which would be utterly inconceivable in this unchivalrous age of ours. edward i. hung up the countess of buchan in a wooden cage on the walls of berwick "that passers-by might gaze on her"; and when a woman accused a franciscan friar of treasonable speeches, the king's justiciar decided that the two should proceed to wager of battle, the friar having one hand tied behind his back. at the best, the knight's oath provided no greater safeguard for women than the unsworn but inbred courtesy of a modern gentleman. when the peasant rebels of broke into the tower, and some miscreants invited the queen mother to kiss them, "yet (strange to relate) the many knights and squires dared not rebuke one of the rioters for acts so indecent, or lay hold of them to stop them, or even murmur under their breath."[ ] but the strangest fact to modern minds is the prevalence of wife-beating, sister-beating, daughter-beating. the full evidence would fill a volume; but no picture of medieval life can be even approximately complete without more quotations than are commonly given on this subject. in the great epics, when the hero loses his temper, the ladies of his house too often suffer in face or limb. gautier, in a chapter already referred to, quotes a large number of instances; but the words of contemporary law-givers and moralists are even more significant. the theory was based, of course, on biblical texts; if god had meant woman for a position of superiority, he would have taken her from adam's head rather than from his side.[ ] her inferiority is thus proclaimed almost on the first page of holy scripture; and inferiority, in an age of violence, necessarily involves subjection to corporal punishment. gautier admits that it was already a real forward step when the th-century "coutumes du beauvoisis" enacted that a man must beat his wife "only in reason." a very interesting theological dictionary of early th century date, preserved in the british museum ( e. vi. a), expresses the ordinary views of cultured ecclesiastics. "moreover a man may chastise his wife and beat her by way of correction, for she forms part of his household; so that he, the master, may chastise that which is his, as it is written in the gloss [to canon law]." not long after chaucer's death, st. bernardino of siena grants the same permission, even while rebuking the immoderate abuse of marital authority. "there are men who can bear more patiently with a hen that lays a fresh egg every day, than with their own wives; and sometimes when the hen breaks a pipkin or a cup he will spare it a beating, simply for love of the fresh egg which he is unwilling to lose. o raving madmen! who cannot bear a word from their own wives, though they bear them such fair fruit; but when the woman speaks a word more than they like, then they catch up a stick and begin to cudgel her; while the hen, that cackles all day and gives you no rest, you take patience with her for the sake of her miserable egg--and sometimes she will break more in your house than she herself is worth, yet you bear it in patience for the egg's sake! many fidgetty fellows who sometimes see their wives turn out less neat and dainty than they would like, smite them forthwith; and meanwhile the hen may make a mess on the table, and you suffer her.... don't you see the pig too, always squeaking and squealing and making your house filthy; yet you suffer him until the time for slaughtering, and your patience is only for the sake of his flesh to eat! consider, rascal, consider the noble fruit of thy wife, and have patience; it is not right to beat her for every cause, no!" in another sermon, speaking of the extravagant and sometimes immodest fashions of the day, he says to the over-dressed woman in his congregation, "oh, if it were my business, if i were your husband, i would give you such a drubbing with feet and fists, that i would make you remember for a while!"[ ] lastly, let us take the manual which chaucer's contemporary, the knight of la tour landry, wrote for the education of his daughters, and which became at once one of the most popular books of the middle ages.[ ] the good knight relates quite naturally several cases of assault and battery, of which the first may suffice. a man had a scolding wife, who railed ungovernably upon him before strangers. "and he, that was angry of her governance, smote her with his fist down to the earth; and then with his foot he struck her in the visage and brake her nose, and all her life after she had her nose crooked, the which shent and disfigured her visage after, that she might not for shame show her visage, it was so foul blemished: [for the nose is the fairest member that man or woman hath, and sitteth in the middle of the visage]. and this she had for her evil and great language that she was wont to say to her husband. and therefore the wife ought to suffer and let the husband have the words, and to be master...." what was sauce for women was, of course, sauce for children also. uppingham is far from being the only english school which has for its seal a picture of the pedagogue dominating with his enormous birch over a group of tiny urchins. at the universities, when a student took a degree in grammar, he "received as a symbol of his office, not a book like masters of the other faculties, but two to him far more important academical instruments--a 'palmer' and a birch, and thereupon entered upon the discharge of the most fundamental and characteristic part of his official duties by flogging a boy 'openlye in the scolys.' having paid a groat to the bedel for the birch, and a similar sum to the boy 'for hys labour,' the inceptor became a fully accredited master in grammar."[ ] at home, girls and boys were beaten indiscriminately. one of the earliest books of household conduct, "how the good wife taught her daughter," puts the matter in a nutshell-- "and if thy children be rebèl, and will not them low, if any of them misdoeth, neither ban them nor blow [curse nor cuff but take a smart rod, and beat them on a row till they cry mercy, and be of their guilt aknow." [acknowledge [illustration: seal of uppingham school] [illustration: corporal punishment in a th-century classroom (from ms. roy. vi. e. . f. )] chapter xvii the gay science "madamë, whilom i was one that to my father had a king; but i was slow, and for nothing me listë not to love obey; and that i now full sore abey.... among the gentle nation love is an occupation which, for to keep his lustës save, should every gentle heartë have." gower, "confessio amantis," bk. iv the facts given in the foregoing chapter may explain a good deal in the wife of bath's prologue that might otherwise be ascribed to wide poetical licence; but they may seem strangely at variance with the "knight's tale" or the "book of the duchess." the contradiction, however, lies only on the surface. neither flesh nor spirit can suffer extreme starvation. when the facts of life are particularly sordid, then that "large and liberal discontent," which is more or less rooted in every human breast, builds itself an ideal world out of those very materials which are most conspicuously and most painfully lacking in the ungrateful reality. the conventional platonism and self-sacrifice of love, according to the knightly theory, was in strict proportion to its rarity in knightly practice. we must, of course, beware of the facile assumption that these medieval _mariages de convenance_ were so much less happy than ours; nothing in human nature is more marvellous than its adaptability; and richard ii., for instance, seems to have bought himself with hard cash as great a treasure as that which tennyson's lord of burleigh won with more subtle discrimination. but at least the conditions of actual marriage were generally far less romantic then than now; and, at a time when the supposed formal judgment of a court of love, "that no married pair can really be in love with each other," was accepted even as _ben trovato_, it was natural that highly imaginative pictures of love _par amours_ should be extremely popular. let us consider again for a moment the conditions of life in a medieval castle. in spite of a good deal of ceremonial which has long gone out of fashion, the actual daily intercourse between man and woman was closer there than at present, in proportion as artificial distances were greater. the lady might stand as high above the squire as the heaven is in comparison with the earth; but she had scarcely more privacy than on board a modern ship. they were constantly in each other's sight, yet could never by any possibility exchange a couple of confidential sentences except by a secret and dangerous rendezvous in some private room, or by such stray chances as some meeting on the stairs, some accident which dispersed the hunting-party and left them alone in the forest, or similar incidents consecrated to romance. the three great excitements of man's life--war, physical exercise, and carousing--touched the ladies far less nearly, and left them ordinarily to a life which their modern sisters would condemn as hopelessly dull. the daily-suppressed craving for excitement, the nervous irritability generated by artificial constraint, explain many contrasts which are conspicuous in medieval manners. moreover, there were men always at hand, and always on the watch to seize the smallest chance. the knight of la tour landry is not the only medieval writer who describes his own society in very much the same downright words as the prophet jeremiah (ch. v., v. ). the very _raison d'être_ of his book was the recollection how, in younger days, "my fellows communed with ladies and gentlewomen, the which [fellows] prayed them of love; for there was none of them that they might find, lady or gentlewoman, but they would pray her; and if that one would not intend to that, other would anon pray. and whether they had good answer or evil, they recked never, for they had in them no shame nor dread by the cause that they were so used. and thereto they had fair language and words; for in every place they would have had their sports and their might. and so they did both deceive ladies and gentlewomen, and bear forth divers languages on them, some true and some false, of the which there came to divers great defames and slanders without cause and reason.... and i asked them why they foreswore them, saying that they loved every woman best that they spake to: for i said unto them, 'sirs, ye should love nor be about to have but one.' but what i said unto them, it was never the better. and therefore because i saw at that time the governance of them, the which i doubted that time yet reigneth, and there be such fellows now or worse, and therefore i purposed to make a little book ... to the intent that my daughters should take ensample of fair continuance and good manners." the tenor of the whole book more than bears out the promise of this introduction: and the good knight significantly recommends his daughters to fast thrice a week as a sovereign specific against such dangers (pp. , , ). [illustration: wise and unwise virgins] we have seen how often women were forbidden attendance at all sorts of public dances, and even weddings; and how demurely they were bidden to pace the streets. the accompanying illustration from a th-century miniature given by thomas wright ("womankind in western europe," p. ) shows on the one hand the formal way in which girls were expected to cross their hands on their laps as they sat, and on the other hand the licence which naturally followed by reaction from so much formality. both sides come out fully in the knight's book. we see a girl losing a husband through a freedom of speech with her prospective fiancé which seems to us most natural and innocent; while the coarsest words and actions were permitted to patterns of chivalry in the presence of ladies. a stifling conventionality oppressed the model young lady, while the less wise virgin rushed into the other extreme of "rere-suppers" after bedtime with like-minded companions of both sexes, and other liberties more startling still.[ ] in every generation moralists noted with pain the gradual emancipation of ladies from a restraint which had always been excessive, and had often been merely theoretical, though those who regretted this most bitterly in their own time believed also most implicitly in the strict virtues of a golden past. guibert of nogent contrasts the charming picture of his own chaste mother with what he sees (or thinks he sees) around him in st. bernard's days. "lord, thou knowest how hardly--nay, almost how impossibly--that virtue [of chastity] is kept by women of our time: whereas of old there was such modesty that scarce any marriage was branded even by common gossip! alas, how miserably, between those days and ours, maidenly modesty and honour have fallen off, and the mother's guardianship has decayed both in appearance and in fact; so that in all their behaviour nothing can be noted but unseemly mirth, wherein are no sounds but of jest, with winking eyes and babbling tongues, and wanton gait.... each thinks that she has touched the lowest step of misery if she lack the regard of lovers; and she measures her glory of nobility and courtliness by the ampler numbers of such suitors." men were more modest of old than women are now: the present man can talk of nothing but his _bonnes fortunes_. "by these modern fashions, and others like them, this age of ours is corrupted and spreads further corruption." in short, it is the familiar philippic of well-meaning orators in every age against the sins of society, and the familiar regret of the good old times. the knight of la tour landry, again, would place the age of real modesty about the time of his own and chaucer's father, a date by which, according to guibert's calculations, the growing shamelessness of the world ought long ago to have worn god's patience threadbare. each was of course so far right that he lived (as we all do) in a time of transition, and that he saw, as we too see, much that might certainly be changed for the better. these things were even more glaring in the middle ages than now. we must not look for too much refinement of outward manners at this early date; but even in essential morality the girl-heroines of medieval romance must be placed, on the whole, even below those of the average french novel.[ ] in both cases we must, of course, make the same allowance; it would be equally unfair to judge chaucer's contemporaries and modern parisian society strictly according to the novelist's or the poet's pictures. but in either case the popularity of the type points to a real underlying truth; and we should err less in taking the early romances literally than in accepting ivanhoe, for instance, as a typical picture of medieval love. no one poet represents that love so fully as chaucer, in both its aspects. i say in _both_, and not in _all_, for such love as lent itself to picturesque treatment had then practically only two aspects, the most ideal and the most material. the maiden whose purity of heart and freedom of manners are equally natural was not only non-existent at that stage of society, but inconceivable. emelye is, within her limits, as beautiful and touching a figure as any in poetry; but her limits are those of a figure in a stained-glass window compared with a portrait of titian's. chaucer himself could not have made her a die vernon or an ethel newcome; with fuller modelling and more freedom of action in the story, she could at best have become a sort of beatrix esmond. but of heavenly love and earthly love, as they were understood in his time, our poet gives us ample choice. it has long ago been noted how large a proportion of his whole work turns on this one passion.[ ] as he said of himself, he had "told of lovers up and down more than ovid maketh of mention": he was "love's clerk." his earthly love we may here neglect, only remembering that it is never merely wicked, but always relieved by wit and humour--indeed, by wit and humour of his very best. but his heavenly love, the ideal service of chivalry, deserves looking into more closely; the more so as his notions are so exactly those of his time, except so far as they are chastened by his rare sense of humour. _amor, che al gentil cuor ratto s'apprende_--so sings francesca in dante's "inferno." love is to every "gentle" heart--to any one who has not a mere money-bag or clod of clay in his breast--not only an unavoidable fate but a paramount duty. as chaucer's arcite says, "a man must needës love, maugre his head; he may not flee it, though he should be dead." troilus, again, who had come to years of discretion, and earned great distinction in war without ever having felt the tender passion, is so far justly treated as a heathen and a publican even by the frivolous pandarus, who welcomes his conversion as unctuously as mr. stiggins might have accepted mr. weller's-- love, of his goodness, hath thee converted out of wickedness. but perhaps the best instance is that afforded by the famous medieval romance of "petit jean de saintré" (chaps, i.-iv.). jean, at the age of thirteen, became page to the chivalrous king john of france; as nearly as possible at the same time as chaucer was serving the duchess of clarence in the same capacity. one of the ladies-in-waiting at the same court was a young widow, who for her own amusement brought petit jean formally into her room. "madame, seated at the foot of the little bed, made him stand between her and her women, and then laid it on his faith to tell her the truth of whatsoever she should ask. the poor boy, who little guessed her drift, gave the promise, thinking 'alas, what have i done? what can this mean?' and while he thus wondered, madame said, smiling upon her women, 'tell me, master, upon the faith which you have pledged me; tell me first of all how long it is since you saw your lady _par amours_?' so when he heard speech of _lady par amours_, as one who had never thought thereon, the tears came to his eyes, and his heart beat and his face grew pale, for he knew not how to speak a single word.... and they pressed him so hard that he said, 'madam, i have none.' 'what, you have none!' said the lady: 'ha! how happy would she be who had such a lover! it may well be that you have none, and well i believe it; but tell me, how long is it since you saw her whom you most love, and would fain have for your lady?'" the poor boy could say nothing, but knelt there twisting the end of his belt between his fingers until the waiting-women pitied him and advised him to answer the lady's question. "'tell without more ado' (said they), 'whom you love best.' 'whom i love best?' (said he), 'that is my lady mother, and then my sister jacqueline.' then said the lady, 'sir boy, i intend not of your mother or sister, for the love of mother and sister and kinsfolk is utterly different from that of lady _par amours_; but i ask you of such ladies as are none of your kin.' 'of them?' (said he), 'by my faith, lady, i love none.' then said the lady, 'what! you love none? ha! craven gentleman, you say that you love none? thereby know i well that you will never be worth a straw.... whence came the great valiance and exploits of lancelot, gawayne, tristram, biron the courteous, and other champions of the round table?...'" the sermon was unmercifully long, and it left the culprit in helpless tears; at the women's intercession, he was granted another day's respite. boylike, he succeeded in shirking day after day until he hoped he was forgotten. but the inexorable lady caught him soon after, and tormented him until "as he thought within himself whom he should name, then (as nature desires and attracts like to like), he bethought himself of a little maiden of the court who was ten years of age. then he said, 'lady, it is matheline de coucy.' and when the lady heard this name, she thought well that this was but childish fondness and ignorance; yet she made more ado than before, and said, 'now i see well that you are a most craven squire to have chosen matheline for your service; not but that she is a most comely maiden, and of good house and better lineage than your own; but what good, what profit, what honour, what gain, what advantage, what comfort, what help, and what counsel can come therefrom to your own person, to make you a valiant man? what are the advantages which you can draw from matheline, who is yet but a child? sir, you should choose a lady who....'" in short, the lady whom she finally commends to his notice is her own self. little by little she teaches the stripling all that she knows of love; and later on, when she is cloyed with possession and weary of his absence at the wars, much that he had never guessed before of falsehood. the story is an admirable commentary on the well-known lines in chaucer's "book of the duchess," where the black knight says of himself-- ... since first i couth have any manner wit from youth or kindëly understanding [natural to comprehend in any thing what love was in mine ownë wit, dreadëless i have ever yet [certainly been tributary and given rent to love, wholly with good intent, and through pleasaunce become his thrall with good will--body, heart, and all. all this i put in his servage as to my lord, and did homage, and full devoutly prayed him-to, he should beset mine heartë so that it plesaunce to him were, and worship to my lady dear. and this was long, and many a year ere that mine heart was set aught-where, that i did thus, and knew not why; i trow, it came me kindëly. [illustration: william of hatfield, son of edward iii and philippa, from his tomb in york minster ( ) showing the dress of a noble youth in the middle of the th century] if death comes at this moment, then "j'aurai passé par la terre, n'ayant rien aimé que l'amour." but instead of death comes something not less sudden and overmastering. to the black knight, as to dante, the lady of his life is revealed between two throbs of the heart-- it happed that i came on a day into a placë where i say [saw truly the fairest company of ladies, that ever man with eye had seen together in one place ... sooth to sayen, i saw one that was like none of the rout ... i saw her dance so comelily, carol and sing so sweetëly, laugh and play so womanly, and look so debonairëly, so goodly speak, and so friendly, that certes, i trow that nevermore was seen so blissful a tresore. here at last the goddess of his hopes is revealed in the flesh; no longer the vague _not impossible she_, but henceforward _she of the golden hair_. the revelation commands the gratitude of a lifetime. having crystallized upon herself his fluid and floating worship, she is henceforth conventionally divine; he demands no more than to be allowed to gaze on her, and in gazing he swoons. as yet, then, she is his idol, his goddess, on an unapproachable pedestal. she may be pretty patently the work of his own hands--he has gone about dreaming of love until his dreams have taken sufficient consistency to be visible and tangible--but as yet his worship must be as far-off as pygmalion's, and he thirsts in vain for a word or a look. then comes the second clause of francesca's creed--_amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona_: true love must needs beget love in return. the statue warms to life; the goddess steps down from her pedestal; the lover forgets now that he had meant to subsist for life on half a dozen kind looks and kind words; and at this point the matter would end nowadays--or at least would have ended a generation ago--in mere prosaic marriage. but here, in the middle ages, it is fifty to one that the fortunes of the pair are not exactly suitable; or he, or she, or both may be married already. then comes the final clause: _amor condusse noi ad una morte_. seldom indeed could the course of true love run smooth in an age of business-marriages; and the poet found his grandest material in the wreckage of tender passions and high hopes upon that iron-bound shore. the large majority of medieval romances, as has long ago been noted, celebrate illicit love. therefore the first commandment of the code is secrecy, absolute secrecy; and in the songs of the troubadors and minnesingers, a personage almost as prominent as the two lovers themselves, is the "envious," the "spier"--the person from whom it is impossible to escape for more than a minute at a time, amid the cheek-by-jowl of castle intercourse--a disappointed rival perhaps, or a mere malicious busybody, but, in any case, a perpetual skeleton at the feast. "troilus and criseyde," for instance, is full of such allusions, and perhaps no poem exemplifies more clearly the common divorce between romantic love and marriage in medieval literature. it is a comparatively small thing that the first three books of the poem should contain no hint of matrimony, though criseyde is a widow, and of noble blood. it would, after all, have been less of a _mésalliance_ than john of gaunt's marriage; but of course it was perfectly natural for chaucer to take the line of least poetical resistance, and make troilus enjoy her love in secret, without thought of consecration by the rites of the church. so far, the poem runs parallel with goethe's "faust." but when we come to the last two books, the behaviour of the pair is absolutely inexplicable to any one who has not realized the usual conventions of medieval romance. the trojan prince antenor is taken prisoner by the greeks, who offer to exchange him against criseyde--a fighting man against a mere woman. hector does indeed protest in open parliament-- but on my part ye may eft-soon them tell we usen here no women for to sell. but the political utility of the exchange is so obvious that parliament determines to send the unwilling criseyde away. what, it may be asked, is troilus doing all this time? as priam's son, he would have had a voice in the council second only to hector's, and he "well-nigh died" to hear the proposition. yet all through this critical discussion he kept silence, "lest men should his affection espy!" the separation, he knows, will kill him; but among all the measures he debates with criseyde or pandarus--even among the desperate acts which he threatens to commit--nothing so desperate as plain marriage seems to occur to any of the three. the first thought of troilus is "how to save her honour," but only in the technical sense of medieval chivalry, by feigning indifference to her. he sheds floods of tears; he tells fortune that if only he may keep his lady, he is reckless of all else in the world; but, when for a moment he thinks of begging criseyde's freedom from the king his father, it is only to thrust the thought aside at once. the step would be not only useless, but necessarily involve "slander to her name."[ ] and all this was written for readers who knew very well that the parties had only to swear, first that they had plighted troth before witnesses, and secondly, that they had lived together as man and wife, in order to prove an indissoluble marriage contract. nor can we ascribe this to any failure in chaucer's art. in the delineation of feelings, their natural development and their finer shades, he is second to no medieval poet, and these qualities come out especially in the "troilus." but, while he boldly changed so much in boccaccio's conception of the poem, he saw no reason to change this particular point, for it was thoroughly in accord with those conventions of his time for which he kept some respect even through his frequent irony. to show clearly how the fault here is not in the poet but in the false _point d'honneur_ of the chivalric love-code, let us compare it with a romance in real life from the "paston letters." sir john paston's steward, richard calle, fell in love with his master's sister margery. the pastons, who not only were great gentlefolk in a small way, but were struggling hard also to become great gentlefolk in a big way, took up the natural position that "he should never have my good will for to make my sister sell candle and mustard in framlingham." but the pair had already plighted their mutual troth; and, therefore, though not yet absolutely married, they were so far engaged that neither could marry any one else without a papal dispensation. calle urged margery to acknowledge this openly to her family: "i suppose, an ye tell them sadly the truth, they would not damn their souls for us." she at last confessed, and the matter came up before the bishop of norwich for judgment. in spite of all the bullying of the family, and the flagrant partiality of the bishop, the girl's mother has to write and tell sir john how "your sister ... rehearsed what she had said [when she plighted her troth to calle], and said, if those words made it not sure, she said boldly that she would make that surer ere that she went thence, for she said she thought in her conscience she was bound, whatsoever the words weren. these lewd words grieved me and her grandam as much as all the remnant." the bishop still delayed judgment on the chance of finding "other things against [calle] that might cause the letting thereof;" and meanwhile the mother turned margery out into the street; so that the bishop himself had to find her a decent lodging while he kept her waiting for his decision. but to annul this plain contract needed grosser methods of injustice than the pastons had influence to compass, and calle not only got his wife at last, but was taken back into the family service.[ ] troilus and criseyde, having political forces arrayed against them, might indeed have failed tragically of their marriage in the end; but there was at least no reason why they should not fight for it as stoutly as the prosaic norfolk bailiff did--if only the idea had ever entered into one or other of their heads! another tacit assumption of the chivalric love-code comes out clearly in the knight's tale, and even goes some way to explain the franklin's; though this latter evidently recounts an old breton lay in which the perspective is as frankly fantastic as the landscape of a miniature. the honest commentator benvenuto da imola is at great pains to assure us that dante's _amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona_ was not an exhaustive statement of actual fact; and that even the kindest ladies sometimes remained obdurate to the prayers of the most meritorious suitors. what is to happen, then? the hero may, of course, sometimes die; but not always; that would be too monotonous. the solution here, as in so many other cases, lies in a poetic paraphrase of too prosaic facts. the duc de berri, who was a great connoisseur and a man of the most refined tastes, bought at an immense sacrifice of money the most delicate little countess in the market: she, of course, had no choice at all in the matter. at an equal sacrifice of blood, first arcite and then palamon won the equally passive emelye, who, when theseus had set her up as a prize to the better fighter, could only pray that she might either avoid them both, or at least fall to him who loved her best in his inmost heart. at a cost of equal suffering, though in a different way, aurelius won the unwilling dorigen--for his subsequent generosity is beside the present purpose. the reader's sympathy, in medieval romance, is nearly always enlisted for the pursuing man. if only he can show sufficient valour, or suffer long enough, he must have the prize, and the lady is sure to shake down comfortably enough sooner or later.[ ] the idea is not, of course, peculiar to medieval poetry, but the frequency with which it there occurs supplies another answer to the main question of this chapter. why, if medieval marriages were really so business-like, is medieval love-poetry so transcendental? it is not, in fact, by any means so transcendental as it seems on the surface; neither palamon nor arcite, at the bottom of all his extravagant protestations of humble worship, feels the least scruple in making emelye the prize of a series of swashing blows at best, and possibly of a single lucky prod. the chance of shakespeare's caskets does at least give portia to the man whom her heart had already chosen; but the similar chances and counter-chances of the knight's tale simply play shuttlecock with a helpless and unwilling girl. under the spell of chaucer's art, we know quite well that palamon and emelye lived very happily ever afterwards; but the knight's tale gives us no reason to doubt the overwhelming evidence that, while heroes in poetry conquered their wives with their right arm, plain men in prose openly bargained for them. chapter xviii the great war "ce voyons bien, qu'au temps présent la guerre si commune éprend, qu'a peine y a nul labourer lequel a son métier se prend: le prêtre laist le sacrement, [laisse et le vilain le charruer, tous vont aux armes travailler. si dieu ne pense à l'amender, l'on peut douter prochainement que tout le mond doit reverser." gower, "mirour," of all the causes that tended in chaucer's time to modify the old ideals of knighthood, none perhaps was more potent than the hundred years' war. unjust as it was on both sides--for the cause of philippe de valois cannot be separated from certain inexcusable manoeuvres of his predecessors on the french throne--it was the first thoroughly national war on so large a scale since the institution of chivalry. no longer merely feudal levies, but a whole people on either side is gradually involved in this struggle; and its military lessons anticipate, to a certain extent, those of the french revolutionary wars. even in froissart's narrative, the greatest heroes of crécy are the english archers; and the welsh knifemen by their side play a part undreamed of in earlier feudal warfare. "when the genoese were assembled together and began to approach, they made a great cry to abash the englishmen, but they stood still and stirred not for all that; then the genoese again the second time made another fell cry, and stept forward a little, and the englishmen removed not one foot; thirdly, again they cried, and went forth till they came within shot; then they shot fiercely with their cross-bows. then the english archers stept forth one pace and let fly their arrows so wholly together and so thick, that it seemed snow.... and ever still the englishmen shot whereas they saw thickest press; the sharp arrows ran into the men of arms and into their horses, and many fell, horse and men.... and also among the englishmen there were certain rascals that went afoot with great knives, and they went in among the men of arms, and slew and murdered many as they lay on the ground, both earls, barons, knights and squires, whereof the king of england was after displeased, for he had rather they had been taken prisoners." those "certain rascals" did not only kill certain knights, they killed also the old idea of knighthood. from that time forward the art of war, which had so long been practised under the frequent restraint of certain aristocratic conventions, took a great leap in the direction of modern business methods. the people were concerned now; and they had grown, as they are apt to grow, inconveniently in earnest. there is a peculiarly living interest for modern england in the story of that army which at crécy won the first of a series of victories astounding to all christendom. only a few months after chaucer's unlucky campaign in france, petrarch had travelled across to paris, and recorded his impressions in a letter. "the english ... have overthrown the ancient glories of france by victories so numerous and unexpected that this people, which formerly was inferior to the miserable scots, has now (not to speak of that lamentable and undeserved fall of a great king which i cannot recall without a sigh) so wasted with fire and sword the whole kingdom of france that i, when i last crossed the country on business, could scarce believe it to be the same land which i had seen before."[ ] the events which so startled petrarch were indeed immediately attributable to the business qualities and the ambitions of two english kings; but their ultimate cause lay far deeper. during all the first stages of the war, in which the english superiority was most marked, the conflict was practically between the french feudal forces and the english national levies. while french kings ignored the duty of every man to serve in defence of his own home, or remembered it only as an excuse for extorting money instead of personal service, edward iii. brought the vast latent forces of his whole kingdom, and (what was perhaps even more important) its full business energies, to bear against a chivalry which at its best had been unpractical in its exclusiveness, and was now already decaying. "edward i. and iii. ... (and this makes their reigns a decisive epoch in the history of the middle ages, as well as in that of england) were the real creators of modern infantry. we must not, however, ascribe the honour of this creation only to the military genius of the two english kings; they were driven to it by necessity, the mother of invention. the device which they used is essentially the same which has been employed in every age by countries of small extent and therefore of scanty population, viz. compulsory military service. although the name of _conscription_ is obviously modern, the thing itself is of ancient use among the very people who know least of it nowadays; and it may be proved conclusively that edward iii., especially, practised it on a great scale. the documentary evidence for this fact is so plentiful that to draw up the briefest summary of it would be to write a whole chapter--neither the least interesting nor the least novel, be it said--of english history; and that is no part of my plan here." so wrote siméon luce, the greatest french specialist on the period, thirty years ago; but the point which he here makes so clearly has hardly yet been fully grasped by english writers.[ ] it may therefore be worth while to bring forward here some specimens of the mass of evidence to which luce alludes. compulsory service is, of course, prehistoric and universal; few nations could have survived in the past unless all their citizens had been ready to fight for them in case of need; and the decadence of imperial rome began with the time when her populace demanded to be fed at the public expense, and defended by hired troops. in principle, therefore, even th-century france recognized the liability of every citizen to serve, while england had not only the principle but the practice. her old fyrd, the anglo-saxon militia system, was reorganized by henry ii. and again by edward i. by the latter's "statute of winchester" every able-bodied man was bound not only to possess arms on a scale proportionate to his wealth, but also to learn their use. a fresh impulse was given to this military training by edward i., who learned from his welsh enemies that the longbow, already a well-known weapon among his own subjects, was far superior in battle to the crossbow. edward, therefore, gradually set about training a large force of english archers. falkirk ( ) was the first important battle in which the archery was used in scientific combination with cavalry; bannockburn ( ) was the last in which the english repeated the old blunder of relying on mounted knights and men-at-arms, and allowing the infantry to act as a more or less disordered mass. while philippe de valois was raising money by the suicidal expedients of taxing bowstrings and ordaining general levies from which every one was expected to redeem himself by a money fine, edward iii. was giving the strictest orders that archery should take precedence of all other sports in england, and that the country should furnish him all the men he needed for his wars.[ ] of all the documents to which luce refers (and which are even more numerous than he could have guessed thirty years ago) let us here glance at two or three which bring the whole system visibly before us. in this matter, as in several others, the clearest evidence is to be found among mr. hudson's invaluable gleanings from the norwich archives.[ ] he has printed and analyzed a number of documents which show the working of the militia system in the city between and --that is, at a time when it is generally asserted that we were conducting the french wars on the voluntary system. in these documents we find that the statute of winchester was being worked quite as strictly as we are entitled to expect of any medieval statute, and a great deal more strictly than the average. the city did in fact provide, and periodically review, an armed force equal in numbers to rather more than one-tenth of its total population--a somewhat larger proportion, that is, than would be furnished by the modern system of conscription on the continent. many of these men, of course, turned out with no more than the minimum club and knife; the next step was to add a sword or an axe to these primitive weapons, and so on through the archers to the numerous "half-armed men," who had in addition to their offensive weapons a plated doublet with visor and iron gauntlets, and finally the "fully-armed," who had in addition a shirt of mail under the doublet, a neck-piece and arm-plates, and whose total equipment must have cost some £ or £ of modern money. mr. hudson also notes that "it is plain that the norwich archers were many of them men of good standing." moreover, this small amount of compulsion was found in medieval england, as in modern switzerland, to stimulate rather than to repress the volunteer energies of the nation. not only did shooting become the favourite national sport, but many of whom we might least have expected such self-sacrifice came forward gladly to fight side by side with their fellow-citizens for hearth and home. in , when the scots invaded england under the misapprehension that none remained to defend the country but "ploughmen and shepherds and feeble or broken-down chaplains," they found among the powerful militia force which met them many parsons who were neither feeble nor infirm. crowds of priests were among those who trooped out from beverley and york, and other northern towns, to a victory of which englishmen have more real reason to be proud than of any other in our early history. marching with sword and quiver on their thigh and the good six-foot bow under their arm, they took off shoes and stockings at the town gates and started barefoot, with chants and litanies, upon that righteous campaign. in , again, when there was a scare of invasion and all men from sixteen to sixty were called out, then "bishops, abbots, and priors, rectors, vicars, and chaplains were as ready as the abbots [_sic_] had been, some to be men-at-arms and some to be archers ... and the beneficed clergy who could not serve in person hired substitutes." in priests and monks were fighting even among the so-called crusaders whom bishop despenser led against the french in flanders.[ ] to have so large a proportion of the nation thus trained for home defence was in itself a most important military asset, for it freed the hands of the army which was on foreign service, and enabled it to act without misgivings as to what might be happening at home. this was in fact the militia which, while edward iii. was with his great army at crécy and calais, inflicted on the scottish invaders at neville's cross one of the most crushing defeats in their history, and added one more crowned head to the collection of noble prisoners in london.[ ] but, more than this, it formed a recruiting-field which alone enabled english armies, far from their base, to hold their own against the forces of a country which at that time had an enormous numerical superiority in population. it had always been doubtful how far the militia was bound to serve abroad. edward iii. himself had twice been forced to grant immunity by statute (first and twenty-fifth years), but with the all-important saving clause "except under great urgency." such great urgency was in fact constantly pleaded, and the cities did not care to contest the point. several calls were made on norwich for men at a time, a proportion which, in figures of modern town population, would be roughly equivalent to from northampton, from birmingham, and , from glasgow. in the year before crécy the less populous town of lynn was assessed at men "of the strongest and most vigorous of the said town, each armed with breastplate, helmet, and gauntlets ... for the defence and rescue of our duchy of aquitaine." the drain on london at the same time was enormous, as i have already had occasion to note in chapter x. the briefest summary of the evidence contained in dr. sharpe's letter-books will suffice here. on the outbreak of war in , in addition to a considerable tribute of ships, the city was called upon for a contingent of men--which would be equivalent to the enormous tribute of , soldiers from modern london. presently "the king ... took occasion to find fault with the city's dilatoriness in carrying out his orders, and complained of the want of physique in the men that were being supplied. at the request of john de pulteneye, who was then occupying the mayoral chair for the fourth time, he consented to accept able-bodied archers at once, and to postpone the selection of the remainder of the force. at the same time he issued letters patent declaring that the aid furnished by the city should not become a precedent. the names of the archers that went to gascony are set out in the letter-book...." but royal promises are unstable. another contingent of was sent soon after. in london was ordered to fit out four ships with men to join the home defence fleet at winchelsea; the citizens protested so strongly that this was reduced by a half. in the king seized all ships of forty tons' burden and raised more soldiers from london, who took part in the glorious victory of sluys. in another levy; in , archers again; in "the sheriffs of london were called upon to make proclamation for all persons between the ages of sixteen and sixty to take up arms and to be at portsmouth by march th"--a command which, however interpreted with the usual elasticity, must yet have produced several hundred recruits for the army which fought at crécy. next year two ships were demanded with armed men, and two more again later in the year. in two london ships with armed men were raised for the battle of les espagnols sur mer. in , again, soldiers were demanded from the city. while this was going on in the towns, the berkeley papers give us similar evidence of conscription in the counties, though the documents are not here continuous. in the sheriff of gloucester was bidden to raise men for service in ireland; next year for scotland. three years later the country was obliged to send to scotland, besides the gloucester city and bristol contingents. then comes the french war. in and lord berkeley spends most of his time mustering and arraying soldiers for france. in the latter year, and again in , edward commissions him to array and arm _all the able men_ in the country, as others were doing throughout the kingdom; were thus arrayed in the shire, and smyth very plausibly conjectures that the small number is due to lord berkeley's secret favour for his own county. in , when edward made the great effort which culminated at crécy, the county and the town of bristol had to raise and arm men "to be conducted whither lord berkeley should direct." and so on until , when there is a significant addition of plenary powers to punish all refractory and rebellious persons, a riot having apparently broken out on account of these levies.[ ] from this time forward the scattered notices never refer to levies for service abroad; but they are still frequent for home defence, and smyth proudly records in three folio volumes the numbers of trained and disciplined men in his own time (james i.), with their "names and several statures," in the single hundred of berkeley. the national militia always remained the most valuable recruiting ground, and kept up that love of archery for which the english were famous down to elizabeth's days and beyond; yet, for purely foreign wars, edward's frequent drains broke the national patience before the end of his reign. the evidence from london points most plainly in this direction. in at last we find the tell-tale notice: "it was frequently easier for the city to furnish the king with money than with men. hence we find it recorded that at the end of august of this year the citizens had agreed to raise a sum of £ for the king in lieu of furnishing him with a military contingent." already by this time the tide had turned against us in france; not that the few english troops failed to keep up their superiority in the field, but du guesclin played a waiting game and wore us steadily out. castle after castle was surprised; isolated detachments were crushed one by one; reinforcements were difficult to raise; and before edward's death three seaports alone were left of all his french conquests. he had at one time wielded an army almost like napoleon's--a mass of professional soldiers raised from a nation in arms. but, like napoleon, he had used it recklessly. such material could not be supplied _ad infinitum_, and our victories began again only after a period of comparative rest, when france was crippled by the madness of her king and divided by internecine feuds. edward's conscription, it will be seen, was somewhat old-fashioned compared with that of modern france and germany. men were enrolled for a campaign partly by bargain, partly by force; and, once enrolled, the wars generally made them into professional soldiers for life. no doubt shakespeare's caricature in the second part of _king henry iv._ may help us a little here, so long as we make due allowance for his comic purpose and the rustiness of the institution in his time. for already in chaucer's lifetime there was a great change in our system of over-sea service. as the sources of conscription began to dry up, the king fell back more and more upon the expedient of hiring troops: he would get some great captain to contract himself by indenture to bring so many armed men at a given time, and the contractor in his turn entered into a number of sub-contracts with minor leaders to contribute to his contingent. under this system a very large proportion of aliens came into our armies; but even then we kept the same organization and principles as in those earlier hosts which were really contingents of english militia. an army thus drawn from a people accustomed to some real measure of self-government inevitably broke through many feudal traditions; and from a very early stage in the war we find important commands given to knights and squires who had fought their way up from the ranks. the most renowned of all these english soldiers of fortune, sir john hawkwood, married the sister of clarence's violante, with a dowry of a million florins; yet he is recorded to have begun as a common archer. he was probably a younger son of a good essex house; but this again simply emphasizes the democratic and business-like organization of the english army compared with its rivals. du guesclin, though he was the eldest son of one of the smaller french nobles, found his promotion terribly retarded by his lack of birth and influence. he was probably the most distinguished leader in france before he even received the honour of knighthood. at the date of the battle of cocherel he had fought with success for more than twenty years, and was by far the most distinguished captain present; yet he owed the command on that day only to the rare good fortune that the greatest noble present recognized his own comparative incapacity, and that the rest agreed in offering to fight under a man of less social distinction but incomparably greater experience than any of themselves. in the english army there would from the first have been no doubt about the real commander--hawkwood, perhaps, who was believed to have begun life as a tailor's apprentice, or knolles, whom this war had taken from the weaver's loom. even the magnificent edward, with all his round table and his order of the garter, was forced to recognize clearly that war is above all things a business. in the earlier days he did indeed defy philippe de valois to single combat; but during the campaign of crécy he made light of the laws of chivalry. he had penetrated close to paris; his army was melting away; provisions were scarce; and the french had broken the bridges in his rear. at this point philip sent him a regular chivalric challenge in form to meet him with his army on a field and a day to be fixed at his own choice, within certain reasonable limits. edward returned a misleading answer, made a corresponding feint with his troops, rapidly rebuilt the bridge of poissy, and had crossed to a place of safety before philip realized that a clever piece of strategy had been executed under his very nose and behind the forms of chivalry. then only did edward throw off the mask, and declare his intention of choosing his own place and time for battle. his royal great-grandson was even more business-like. when the french nobles asked henry v. to give a great tourney in honour of his marriage, as had always been the custom, he refused in the bluntest and most soldierly fashion. he and his men, he replied, would be engaged for the next few weeks at the siege of sens; if any gallant frenchman wished to break a lance or two, he might come and break them there. while this mimic warfare was at its highest favour in france, the three edwards had always kept jealous control over it in england, and constantly forbidden tournaments without royal licence. this policy is, no doubt, partly explained by some deference to ecclesiastical prohibitions, and partly by the disorders to which jousts constantly gave rise; but we may pretty safely infer (with luce) that our kings had little belief in the direct value of the knightly tournament as a school of warfare, and that here, as on so many other points, the practical genius of the race broke even through class prejudices.[ ] it is impossible better to sum up the results of english business methods in warfare than in the words which are forced reluctantly from m. luce's impartial pen. "in my opinion, five or six thousand english archers, thus drilled and equipped, and supported by an equal number of knifemen, would always have beaten even considerably larger forces of the bravest chivalry in the world--at least in a frontal attack and as a matter of sheer hard fighting. such, moreover, seems to have been the opinion of bertrand du guesclin, the most renowned captain of the middle ages, who never fought a great pitched battle against a real english army if he could possibly help it. at cocherel his adversaries were mostly gascons, and at pontvallain he crushed knolles's rear-guard by one of those startling marches of which he had the secret; but he was beaten at auray and navarette." gower might complain without too poetical exaggeration that the vortex of war swept away not only the serf from his plough but the very priest from his altar; yet even chaucer's poor parson may well have conceded that, if we must have an army at all, we might as well have it as efficient and as truly national as possible. [illustration: bodiam castle, kent built during chaucer's lifetime by sir edward dalyngrudge, who had fought at crÉcy and poitiers] chapter xix the burden of the war "[edward], the first of english nation that ever had right unto the crown of france by succession of blood and generation of his mother withouten variance, the which me thinketh should be of most substance; for christ was king by his mother of judee, which surer side is ay, as thinketh me." hardyng, "chronicle," it must, however, be admitted that so terrible a weapon in so rough an age was only too dangerous. when edward iii. found that his cousin of france not only meant to deal treacherously with him in aquitaine, but had also allied himself with our deadly enemies of scotland, he found a very colourable excuse for retaliation by raising a claim to the throne of france. but for the salic law, which forbade inheritance through a female, edward would undoubtedly be, if not the rightful heir, at least nearer than philippe de valois, who now sat on that throne. the biblical colour which he gave to his claim by pleading the precedent of "judee" was of course the after-thought of some ingenious theologian; the real strength of edward's claim lay in his army. to appreciate the strength of edward's temptations here, we must imagine modern germany adding to her other armaments a navy capable of commanding the seas, a kaiser fettered by even less constitutional checks than at present, and sharing with his people even greater incitements to cupidity. beyond the prospect, always dazzling enough to a statesman, of an enormous indemnity and a substantial increase of territory, medieval warfare offered even to the meanest english soldier only too probable hopes of riot and booty. froissart, though he seldom feels very deeply for the mere people, describes our first march through the defenceless districts of normandy in words which make us understand why this unhappy, unprepared country could only mark time for the next hundred years, while we, in spite of all our faults and follies, went on slowly from strength to strength. england, with her own four or five millions and a little help from aquitaine, rode roughshod again and again over the disorganized ten millions north of the loire; while the french--even during those thirty years of union which elapsed between the recovery of guienne and the murder of the duke of orleans--frequently enough burned our southern seaports, but never penetrated more than a few miles inland in the face of our shire-levies. the contrast is in every way characteristic of chaucer's england, and froissart's description is of the deepest significance, not only to the student of political and social history, but even to the literary historian. it has been noted that chaucer's deepest note of pathos is for the sorrows of the helpless--the irremediable sufferings of those whose frailty has tempted murder or oppression, and to whom the poet himself can offer nothing but a tear on earth and some hope of redress in heaven. let us remember, then, that chaucer fought in two french campaigns, identical in kind and not even differing much in degree from the invasion of which froissart describes. "they came to a good port and to a good town called barfleur, the which incontinent was won, for they within gave up for fear of death. howbeit, for all that the town was robbed, and much gold and silver there found, and rich jewels; there was found so much riches, that the boys and villains of the host set nothing by good furred gowns; they made all the men of the town to issue out and to go into the ships, because they would not suffer them to be behind them for fear of rebelling again. after the town of barfleur was thus taken and robbed without brenning, then they spread abroad in the country and did what they list, for there was none to resist them. at last they came to a great and a rich town called cherbourg; the town they won and robbed it, and brent part thereof, but into the castle they could not come, it was so strong and well furnished with men of war. then they passed forth and came to montebourg, and took it and robbed and brent it clean. in this manner they brent many other towns in that country and won so much riches, that it was marvel to reckon it. then they came to a great town well closed called carentan, where there was also a strong castle and many soldiers within to keep it. then the lords came out of their ships and fiercely made assault; the burgesses of the town were in great fear of their lives, wives and children; they suffered the englishmen to enter into the town against the will of all the soldiers that were there; they put all their goods to the englishmen's pleasures, they thought that most advantage. when the soldiers within saw that, they went into the castle; the englishmen went into the town, and two days together they made sore assaults, so that when they within saw no succour, they yielded up, their lives and goods saved, and so departed. the englishmen had their pleasure of that good town and castle, and when they saw they might not maintain to keep it, they set fire therein and brent it, and made the burgesses of the town to enter into their ships, as they had done with them of barfleur, cherbourg and montebourg, and of other towns that they had won on the sea-side.... the lord godfrey as marshal rode forth with five hundred men of arms, and rode off from the king's battle a six or seven leagues, in brenning and exiling the country, the which was plentiful of everything--the granges full of corn, the houses full of all riches, rich burgesses, carts and chariots, horse, swine, muttons and other beasts; they took what them list and brought into the king's host; but the soldiers made no count to the king nor to none of his officers of the gold and silver that they did get; they kept that to themselves.... thus by the englishmen was brent, exiled, robbed, wasted and pilled the good, plentiful country of normandy.... it was no marvel though they of the country were afraid, for before that time they had never seen men of war, nor they wist not what war or battle meant. they fled away as far as they might hear speaking of the englishmen, and left their houses well stuffed, and granges full of corn, they wist not how to save and keep it." hitherto froissart has only deigned to record the fire and pillage; but the melancholy catalogue now goes on to coutances, saint-lô, and caen, where at last the citizens fought boldly in defence of their unwalled town, "greater than any city in england except london." in spite of their numbers, and of an obstinate courage which extorted the admiration of their adversaries, the half-armed and untrained citizens were at last hopelessly beaten, and the town given over to the infuriated soldiery; though here sir thomas holland, an old crusader, who might have sat for chaucer's knight, "rode into the streets and saved many lives of ladies, damosels, and cloisterers from defoiling, for the soldiers were without mercy."[ ] at a later stage, when the horrors of civil war were added to those of the english invasion, the norman chronicler, thomas basin, describes the fertile country between loire, seine, and somme as a mere wilderness, half overgrown with brambles and thickets. "moreover, whatsoever husbandry there was in the aforesaid lands, was only in the neighbourhood and suburbs of cities, towns, or castles, for so far as a watchman's eye from some tower or point of vantage could reach to see robbers coming upon them; then would the watchman sound the alarm ... on a bell or hunting horn, or other bugle. which alarms and incursions were so common and frequent in very many places, that when the oxen and plough-horses were loosed from the plough, hearing the watchman's signal, they took flight and galloped away forthwith of their own accord, by the force of habit, to their places of refuge; nay, the very sheep and swine had learnt by long use to do the same." the french bishop jean-jouvenel des ursins, in , speaks of the sufferings of his diocese in language too painful and too direct to be reproduced here.[ ] to realize the full force of these descriptions, it is necessary to compare them with those of the good monk walsingham, who drily records how edward "attacked, took, sacked, and burnt caen, and many other cities after it." it is only when edward comes back from calais with his victorious army that walsingham waxes eloquent. "then folk thought that a new sun was rising over england, for the abundance of peace, the plenty of possessions, and the glory of victory. for there was no woman of any name, but had somewhat of the spoils of caen, calais, and other cities beyond the seas. furs, feather-beds, or household utensils, tablecloths and necklaces, cups of gold or silver, linen and sheets, were to be seen scattered about england in different houses. then began the english ladies to wax wanton in the vesture of the french women; and as the latter grieved to have lost their goods, so the former rejoiced to have obtained them."[ ] in an age of brute force, when popes hesitated no more than kings to shed rivers of blood for a few square miles of territory, when every sailor was a potential pirate and every baron a potential highwayman[ ]--in such an age as this, no nation could have resisted the lust of conquest when it had once realized the wealth and supine helplessness of a neighbour. "the english," wrote froissart, when old age had brought him to ponder less on feats of arms and more on eternity, "the english will never love or honour their king but if he be victorious, and a lover of arms and war against his neighbours, and especially against such as are greater and richer than themselves.... their land is more fulfilled of riches and all manner of goods when they are at war, than in times of peace; and therein are they born and ingrained, nor could a man make them understand the contrary.... they take delight and solace in battles and in slaughter: covetous and envious are they above measure of other men's wealth."[ ] but when exhausted france could no longer yield more than a mere livelihood to the armies which overran her, then at last things found their proper level, and the nation wearied of bloodshed. "universal conscription proved then as now the great inculcator of peace. to the burgher called from the loom and the dyeing pit and the market stall to take down his bow or dagger, war was a hard and ungrateful service, where reward and plunder were dealt out with a niggardly hand; and men conceived a deep hatred of strife and disorder of which they had measured all the misery."[ ] but, terribly as it might press upon our enemies in those days, when the private soldier had almost an unrestricted right of pillage, the statute of winchester was none the less necessary to the full development of our political freedom. indeed, it is scarcely a paradox to say that those civic and parliamentary liberties which made such rapid strides during the sixty years of chaucer's lifetime owed as much to this burden of personal service as to anything else. to begin with, it was a police system also; and, for by far the greater part of the country, the only police system. when the hue and cry was raised after a robber or a murderer, all were then bound to tumble out of doors and join in the chase with such arms as they had, just as they were bound to turn out and take their share in the national war. when all the disorders of the th century have been counted up in england, they are as dust in the balance compared with those of foreign countries. the peasants' rising of astonishes modern historians in nothing so much as in its sudden rise, its sudden end when the king had promised redress, and its comparative orderliness in disorder. but, on second thoughts, does not this seem natural enough among a people accustomed to rough military discipline, and liable any day to be arrayed, as they had laboured, side by side?[ ] lastly, we have the repeated testimony of our most determined enemies to the superiority of english over french discipline. bishop des ursins, in a letter written to the french parliament in , describes the worst horrors of the war as having been committed by french upon french; and he expressly adds, "at present, things are somewhat amended by the coming of the english." this modified compliment he repeats again in a letter to charles vii., adding, "[the english] did indeed at least keep their assurances once given, and also their safe conducts"; while the french (as he complains) often made light of their own engagements.[ ] indeed, the whole array of documents collected by the astounding diligence of the late subprefect of the vatican library is calculated--we may not say, to make us read with equanimity the tale of horrors perpetrated by our countrymen in france--but at least to shift much of the blame from the individuals to the times in which they lived. the english were not cruel merely because they were strong; the weaker french were on the whole more cruel; nowhere has the bitter proverb _gallus gallo lupus_ been more terribly justified. the main difference was that, in an age when a man must needs be hammer or anvil, our national character and organization, no doubt assisted also by fortune, enabled us to play the former part. father denifle shows very clearly how even great and good frenchmen like des ursins, living in joan of arc's time, were ashamed of her because she seemed to have failed. the impulses of actual chivalry--apart from its nominal code--were at best even more capricious in france than in england. knightly mercy and forbearance seldom even professed to include the mere rank and file of a conquered army. when a place was taken by storm, it was common to ransom the officers and kill the rest without mercy. here and there a knight earns special praise from froissart by pleading for the lives of the unhappy privates who had fought as bravely as himself; but i remember no case of one who actually insisted on sharing the fate of his men. the black prince tarnished his fair fame by the massacre of limoges; yet in this he did but follow the example of the saintly charles de blois, who thanked god for victory in the cathedral of quimper while his men were making a hell of the captured city. his orisons finished, charles stayed the slaughter; and the black prince, after watching the butchery of limoges from his litter, and turning his face away from women and children who knelt to implore his mercy, was at last appeased by the manly spectacle of three french warriors fighting boldly for their lives against three englishmen.[ ] their courage saved them, and what we might now call their conqueror's sporting instincts; just as queen philippa's timely pleading saved the citizens of calais. all honour to the noble impulse in both cases; but greater honour still to the manly independence and discipline which saved our english commonalty from the need of appealing to a conqueror's mercy; which defended them alike from robbers at home and frenchmen over the seas, and left us free to work out our own liberties without foreign interference. no doubt the wars of the roses were partly a legacy of our unjust aggression in france; but english civil wars have been among the least disorderly the world has known; in all of them the citizen-levies have fought stoutly on the side of liberty; and for centuries after chaucer's death the national militia was recognized as a strong counterpoise to the unconstitutional tendencies of the standing army. of all this froissart recognized little indeed; though we, in the light of a hundred other documents, can see how all went on under froissart's eyes. he saw clearly that this was the most warlike nation in europe; he saw also that it was the most democratic; but he seems neither to have traced any connection here on the one hand, nor on the other to have been troubled by any sense of contrast; it was not in his genius to look for causes, but rather to repeat with child-like vivacity what he saw and heard. yet for us, to whom nothing in chaucer's england can be more interesting than to watch, under the great trees of the forest, the springing of that undergrowth which was in time to become the present british people, it is delightful to turn from pictures of mere successful bloodshed to froissart's bitter-sweet judgments on the national character. "englishmen suffer indeed for a season, but in the end they repay so cruelly that it may stand as a great warning; for no man may mock them; the lord who governs them rises and lays him down to rest in sore peril of his life.... and specially there is no people under the sun so perilous in the matter of its common folk as they are in england. for in england the nature and condition of the nobles is very far different from that of the common folk and villeins; for the gentlefolk are of loyal and noble condition, and the common people is of a fell, perilous, proud and disloyal condition: and wheresoever the people would show their fierceness and their power, the nobles would not last long after. but now for a long time they have been at good accord together, for the nobles ask nothing of the people but what is of full reason; moreover none would suffer them to take aught from him without payment--nay, not an egg or a hen. the tradesmen and labourers of england live by the travail of their hands, and the nobles live on their own rents and revenues, and if the kings vex them they are repaid; not that the king can tax his people at pleasure, no! nor the people would not or could not suffer it. there are certain ordinances and covenants settled upon the staple of wool, wherefrom the king is assisted beyond his own rents and revenues; and when they go to war, that covenant is doubled. england is best kept of all lands in the world; otherwise they could by no means live together; and it behoveth well that a king who is their lord should order his ways after them and bow to their will in many matters; and if he do the contrary, so that evil come thereof, bitterly then shall he rue it, as did this king edward ii." "and men said then in london and throughout england 'we must reform and take a new ordinance [with our king]; for that which we have had hath brought us sore weariness and travail, and this kingdom of ours is not worth a straw without a good head; whereas we have had one as bad as a man can find.... we have no use for a sluggish and heavy king who seeketh too much his own ease and pleasure; we would rather slay half a hundred of such, one after the other, than fail to get a king to our use and liking.'" "the king of england must needs obey his people, and do all their will."[ ] we with our present liberties must not of course take these words of froissart's too literally; but they must have conveyed a very definite and, on the whole, a very true impression to his french contemporaries; for no language but that of hyperbole could adequately have described the contrast between their polity and that of england. moreover, it must be remembered that froissart wrote this with the peasant's revolt not far behind him, and the deposition of richard ii. fresh in his mind. the truth is that the feudal system was already slowly but surely breaking down in england: our lower classes, with recognized constitutional rights on the one hand, and on the other hand a rough military organization and discipline of their own, were, in many ways, far more free in than the french peasants of . chaucer and froissart always felt at the bottom of their hearts this coming of the people; it lends a breadth to their thoughts and colour to their brush even when they paint the gorgeous pageantry of overripe feudalism; labouring the more earnestly, perhaps, to record these fleeting hues because of the night which must needs come before the new day. and how vivid their pictures are! the prologue to the "book of the duchess," the castle garden and the tournament in the knight's tale, troilus with his knights pacing the aisles of the temple to gaze on the ladies at their prayers, or riding home under criseyde's balcony after the victorious fight: froissart's stories of the chaplet of pearls, the court of gaston de foix, the dance of the wild men, queen isabella's entry into london--what an enchanted palace of tapestries and stained glass we have here, and what a school of stately manners! but time, which takes away so much, brings us still more in compensation; and without treason to chaucer or his age we may frankly admit that his perfect knight is only younger brother to colonel newcome, and that froissart himself can show us no figure so deeply chivalrous as the lawrences or the havelocks of our later indian wars. chapter xx the poor "misuse not thy bondman, the better mayst thou speed; though he be thine underling here, well may hap in heaven that he win a worthier seat, and with more bliss; for in charnel at the church churls be evil to know, or a knight from a knave there; know this in thine heart." "piers plowman," b., vi., it has sometimes been contended in recent years that the middle ages lacked only our smug middle-class comfort; and that, as the upper classes were nobler, so the poor were healthier and happier then. it is probable that the latter part of this theory is at least as mistaken as the first: but the question is in itself more complicated, and we have naturally less detailed evidence in the poor man's case than in the rich man's. among the great, we find many virtues and many vices common to both ages; but a careful comparison reveals certain grave faults which put the earlier state of society, as we might expect, at a definite and serious disadvantage. no gentleman of the present day would dream of striking his wife and daughters, of talking to them like the knight of la tour landry, or like the merchant in the presence of the nuns, or of selling marriages and wardships in the open market. all the redeeming virtues in the world, we should feel, could not put the man who saw no harm in these things in the front rank of real gentility. such plain and decisive methods of differentiation, however, begin to disappear as we descend the social scale; until, at the very bottom, we find little or no difference in coarseness of moral fibre between our own contemporaries and chaucer's. for it stands to reason that the development of the poor cannot be so rapid as that of the upper classes. in all human affairs, to him that hath shall be given; the superior energy and abilities of one family will differentiate it more and more, as life becomes more complicated, from other families which still vegetate among the mass; and in proportion as the wealth of the world increases, the gap must necessarily widen between the man who has most and the man who has least; since there have always been a certain number who possess, and are capable of possessing or keeping, virtually nothing. in that sense, the terrible contrast between wealth and poverty is undoubtedly worse in our days; but this fact in itself is as insignificant as it is unavoidable. the tramp on the highroad is not appreciably unhappier for knowing that his nothingness is contrasted nowadays with mr. carnegie's millions instead of de la pole's thousands; and again, until we can find some means of distributing the accumulations of the rich among the poor without doing far more harm than good, the community loses no more by allowing a selfish man to lock up his millions, than formerly when they were only hundreds or thousands. the securities afforded by modern society for possession and accumulation of wealth do indeed often permit the capitalist to sweat his workmen deplorably; but these are the same securities which allow the workman to sleep in certain possession of his own little savings. while the capitalist is accumulating money, the foresight and self-restraint of the workmen enables them to accumulate votes, which in the long run are worth even more. much may no doubt be done in detail by keeping in eye the simpler methods of our ancestors; but no sound principle can be modelled on an age when nothing prevented capitalists from hoarding but lack of decent security, when strikes were rare only because of penal laws against all combinations of workmen, and when the peasant was partly kept from starving by his recognized market value as the domestic animal of his master. we could easily remedy many desperate social difficulties--for the moment at least--if we might reduce half the population of england again to the status of serfs. "the social questions of the period cannot be understood, unless we remember that in more than half the people of england did not possess the privileges which magna charta secured to every 'freeman.'"[ ] the english serf was indeed some degrees better off than his french brother, to whose lord the legist pierre de fontaines could write in the th century "by our custom there is between thee and thy villein no judge but only god."[ ] the english serf could not be evicted, but neither could he leave his holding; he was transferred with the estate from master to master as a portion of the live stock. by custom, as the master had rights to definite services or money dues from him, so he had definite rights as against his master; but though in cases of manslaughter or maiming the serf could appeal to the king's courts, all other cases must be heard in the manor court, where the lord was judge in his own cause. let us hear chaucer himself on this subject, in his parson's tale: "through this cursed sin of avarice and covetise come these hard lordships, through which men be distrained by tallages, customs, and carriages more than their duty or reason is: and eke take they of their bondmen amercements which might more reasonably be called extortions than amercements. of which amercements, or ransoming of bondmen, some lords' stewards say that it is rightful, forasmuch as a churl hath no temporal thing that is not his lord's, as they say. but certes these lordships do wrong that bereave their bondmen [of] things that they never gave them." in theory, the reeve was indeed a sort of foreman, elected by the workers to represent their interests before their master; but it will be noticed how chaucer looks upon him as the lord's servant; and in "piers plowman" he is even more definitely put among the enemies of the people, with beadles, sheriffs, and "sisours," or jurors.[ ] it must be remembered, too, that the general reliance everywhere on custom rather than on written law, the difference of customs on various manors, and the petty vexations constantly entailed even by those which were most certainly recognized, bred constant discontent and disputes. the heavy fine which the serf owed for sending his son to school fell, of course, only in very exceptional cases, and may be set off against the few who were enfranchized in order to enable them to take holy orders. but the _merchet_, or fine paid for marriage, must have been a bitter burden, while the _heriot_, or _mortuary_, is to modern ideas an exaction of unredeemed iniquity. in most manors, though apparently not in all, the lord claimed by this custom the best possession left by his dead tenant; and (so long as he had left not less than three head of live stock) the parish clergyman claimed the second best. the case of a widow and orphans in a struggling household is one in which no charity can ever be misplaced; yet here their natural protectors were precisely those who joined hands to plunder them; and every parish had its two licensed wreckers, who picked their perquisites from the deathbeds of the poor.[ ] no doubt here, as elsewhere, the strict law was not always enforced, even though its enforcement was so definitely to the interest of the stronger party; self-interest, apart from a fellow-feeling which seldom dies out altogether, prevents a man from taxing even his horse beyond its powers; but there is definite evidence that merchets and heriots were no mere theoretical grievance. moreover, these were only the worst of a hundred ways in which law and custom gave the lord a galling, and apparently unreasonable, hold upon the peasants; and they must needs have chafed against such a yoke as this even if their position as domestic animals had been more comfortable than it was. let us suppose--though this needs better proof than has yet been advanced--that the serf was as well fed and housed as the modern english labourer;[ ] suppose that he was far more of a real man than his legal status gave him a right to be; then he must only have smarted all the more, we may safely say, under his beastlike disabilities. "we are men formed in christ's likeness, and we are kept like beasts"; such are the words which froissart puts into the serfs' mouths. "to the sentiment" (comments a modern writer) "there is all the difference between economic compulsion, apparently the outcome of inevitable conditions, and a legal dependence upon personal caprice. even comfortable circumstances, which he apparently enjoyed, created in the malmesbury bondman no satisfaction with his lot. there is a pathetic ring in the words which, in his old age, he is recorded to have used, that 'if he might bring that [his freedom] aboute, it wold be more joifull to him than any worlie goode.'" nor was this the cry of a single voice only, but also of the whole peasantry of england at that moment of the middle ages when they most definitely formulated their aims. "the rising of sets it beyond doubt that the peasant had grasped the conception of complete personal liberty, that he held it degrading to perform forced labour, and that he considered freedom to be his right."[ ] moreover, the general voice of medieval moralists is here on the peasants' side. it is true that (in spite of the frequent reminders of our common parentage in adam and eve) few men of chaucer's day would have agreed with wycliffe in objecting on principle to hereditary bondage; but still fewer doubted that the landlords, as a class, did in fact use their power unmercifully. "how mad" (writes cardinal jacques de vitry), "how mad are those men who rejoice when sons are born to their lords!" many knights (he says) force their serfs to labour, and give them not even bread to eat. when the knight does call his men together, as if for war, it is too often only to prey on the peasant. "many say nowadays, when they are rebuked for having taken a cow from a poor peasant: 'let it suffice the boor that i have left him the calf and his own life. i might do him far more harm if i would; i have taken his goose, but left him the feathers.'" here, again, is a still more living picture from "piers plowman"-- "then peace came to parliament and put up a bill, how that wrong against his will his wife had y-taken and how he ravished rose, reginald's leman, and margaret of her maidenhood, maugre her cheeks. 'both my geese and my griskins his gadlings fetchen, i dare not for dread of him fight nor chide. he borrowed my bay steed, and brought him never again, nor no farthing him-for, for nought i can plead. he maintaineth his men to murder mine own, forestalleth my fair, fighteth in my cheapings, [markets breaketh up my barn-door and beareth away my wheat; and taketh me but a tally for ten quarter oaten; and yet he beat me thereto, and lieth by my maiden, i am not so hardy for him up for to look.' the king knew he said sooth, for conscience him told." that this kind of thing was far less common in england than elsewhere, we have froissart's and other evidence; but that it was far too common even in chaucer's england there is no room whatever to doubt. as m. jusserand has truly said, a dozen parliamentary documents justify the poet's complaints; and he quotes an extraordinarily interesting case from the actual petition of the victims.[ ] the time, however, was yet unripe for such far-reaching changes as the peasants demanded. the circumstances and incidents of their revolt have been admirably described by mr. trevelyan, and lately in more detail by prof. oman; and its main events are prominent in all our histories; probably no rebellion of such magnitude was ever so sudden in its origin or its end; all was practically over in a single month. discontent had, of course, been seething for years; yet even so definite a grievance as the poll tax of could not have raised half england in revolt within a few days, but for a sense of power and a rough discipline among the working-classes. for more than a century the men who were now so wronged had been compelled to keep arms, to learn their use, and to muster periodically under captains of twenties and captains of hundreds. for a whole generation edward iii. had proclaimed, at frequent intervals, that he could not meet his enemies without a fresh levy from town and country; and, under a system which allowed the purchase of substitutes, such levies fell heaviest on the lower classes. what was more natural than that these same lower classes should muster now to free the king from his other enemies--and theirs too, as they thought--incapable, bloodsucking ministers and unjust landlords? they had only to turn out as on a muster and march straight upon london, each village contingent picking up others on the way; and this is exactly what they did.[ ] the chroniclers definitely record their order even in disorder; it was removed by a whole horizon from the contemporary jacquerie in france, in which the peasants rose like wild beasts, with no ideas but plunder, lust, and revenge. these english rebels resisted manfully at first all temptation to plunder among the rich houses of london. "if they caught any man thieving, they cut off his head, as men who hated thieves above all things"--such is the testimony of their bitter enemy walsingham. when they gutted john of gaunt's palace, nothing was kept of the vast wealth which it contained; all things were treated as accursed, like the spoils of jericho. the rioters were loyal to the king, had a definite policy, and aimed at making treaties in due form with their enemies. they "had among themselves a watchword in english, 'with whome haldes you?' and the answer was, 'with kinge richarde and the true comons.'" "they took [chief justice belknap] and made him swear on the bible." at canterbury "they summoned the mayor, the bailiffs and the commons of the said town, and examined them whether they would with good will swear to be faithful and loyal to king richard and to the true commons of england or no." "the commons, out of good feeling to [the king], sent back word by his messengers that they wished to see him and speak with him at blackheath." at mile end they were arrayed under "two banners, and many pennons," drew out willingly into two lines at richard's bidding, and made an orderly bargain with him. in the final meeting at smithfield, "the king and his train ... turned into the eastern meadow in front of st. bartholomew's ... and the commons arrayed themselves on the west side in great battles." after tyler's death, again, they followed at richard's command into clerkenwell fields, where they were presently surrounded partly by the mercenary troopers of sir robert knolles, but mainly by the citizen levies, "the wards arrayed in bands, a fine company of well-armed folks in great strength." the very suddenness of their collapse is not only perfectly explicable under these circumstances, but it is just what we might expect in a case where the conflicting parties have learnt, under some sort of common discipline, the priceless lesson of give and take, and can see some reason in each other's claims; the cronstadt mutiny is the latest example of this, and perhaps not the least instructive.[ ] their main claims had been granted by the king, and, in proportion as the rioters were loyal and orderly at heart, in the same proportion they must have seen clearly that wat tyler's fate had been thoroughly deserved. no wonder that they cowered now before the king and his troops, and dispersed peaceably to their homes. even walsingham's satirical account of their arms, with due allowance for literary exaggeration, is exactly what the most formal documents would lead us to expect. "the vilest of commons and peasants," he says; "some of whom had only cudgels, some rusty swords, some only axes, some bows that had hung so long in the smoke as to be browner than ancient ivory, with one arrow apiece, many whereof had but one wing.... among a thousand such, you would scarce have found one man that wore armour."[ ] compare this with the actual muster-roll of a norwich leet, a far richer community than these villages from which most of the rebels came (conesford, a.d. ). out of the mustered, wear defensive armour; only are archers (an unusually small proportion, of course); turn out with knife, sword, and bill or hatchet; have only two weapons, which in nine out of ten cases consist of knife and cudgel. the rioters, of course, would in most cases have come from this lowest class; and in reading through the norwich lists one seems to see the very men who followed after john ball. "thomas pottage, with knife and cudgel"; "william mouse, with knife and cudgel"; "long john, with knife and cudgel"; "adam piper and robert skut, with knife and bill"; "john cosy, hamo garlicman, robert rubbleyard, john stutter, roger dauber, william boardcleaver, william merrygo, nicholas skip, alice brokedish's servant,"--all with knife and cudgel again. gower's mock-heroic catalogue of the rioters' names in the first book of his "vox clamantis" is not so picturesque as these actual muster-rolls. these, then, were the men before whose face gower describes his fellow-landlords as lurking like wild beasts in the woods, feeding on grass and acorns, and wishing that they could shrink within the very rind of the trees; the men who a day or two later surged like a sea round chaucer's tower of aldgate, until some accomplice unbarred the gate. chroniclers note with astonishment the paralysis of the upper classes all through this revolt, or at least until wat tyler's death; and though richard revoked his royal promise of freedom, and bloody assizes were held from county to county until the country was sick of slaughter, and parliament re-enacted all the old oppressive statutes, yet the landlords can never entirely have forgotten this lesson. professor oman, in his anxiety to kill the already slain theory that the revolt virtually put an end to serfdom, seems hardly to allow enough for human nature; but mr. trevelyan sums the matter up in words as just as they are eloquent: "[the revolt] was a sign of national energy, it was a sign of independence and self-respect in the medieval peasants, from whom three-quarters of our race, of all classes and in every continent, are descended. this independent spirit was not lacking in france in the th century, but it died out by the end of the hundred years' war; stupid resignation then took hold of burghers and peasantry alike, from the days when machiavelli observed their torpor, down to the eve of the revolution. the _ancien régime_ was permitted to grow up. but in england there has been a continuous spirit of resistance and independence, so that wherever our countrymen or our kinsmen have gone, they have taken with them the undying tradition of the best and surest freedom, which 'slowly broadens down from precedent to precedent.'"[ ] this chapter could not be complete without at least a passing allusion to the general uncleanliness of medieval life, even in a city like london, where there was some real attempt at organized scavenging of the streets, and where the laws commanded strictly "he that will keep a pig, let him keep it in his own house."[ ] four great visitations of the bubonic plague occurred in chaucer's lifetime; the least of them would have been enough to mark an epoch in modern england. the sixty years of his life are exceptional, on the other hand, in their comparative freedom from severe famine; but there hung always over men's lives the shadow of god's hand--or rather, as they too often felt, of satan's. during the great storm of "beasts, trees and housen were all to-smit with violent lightning, and suddenly perished; and the devil in man's likeness spake to men going by the way"; and a good herald who watched the march past of the rioters in "saw several devils among them; he fell sick and died within a brief while afterwards."[ ] it has often been noted how little chaucer refers either to this revolt or the great pestilence; but the multitude interested him comparatively little. he felt with the pleasures and pains of the individual poor man; but with regard to the poor in bulk, he would only have shrugged his shoulders and said "they are always with us." his griselda is own sister to king cophetua's beggar-maid in the burne-jones picture. for all the real pathos of the story, her rags are draped with every refinement of consummate art. we believe in them conventionally, but know on reflection that they are there only to point an artistic contrast. again, in the "nuns' priest's tale" the "poure wydwe, somdel stope in age," with her smoky cottage and the humble stock of her yard, are just the subdued and tender background which the poet needs for the mock-chivalric glories of his chanticleer and partlet. for glimpses of the real poor, the poor poor, we must go to "piers plowman." here we find them of all sorts, and at the top of the scale the plowman, the skilled agricultural labourer or almost peasant-farmer-- "i have no penny, quoth piers, pullets for to buy, neither goose nor griskin; but two green cheeses [new a few curds and cream, and a cake of oats, and bread for my bairns of beans and of peases. and yet i say, by my soul, i have no salt bacon; not a cockney, by christ, collops to make, [egg: eggs and bacon but i have leek-plants, parsley and shallots, chiboles and chervils and cherries, half-red ... [onions by this livelihood we must live till lammas-time, and by that i hope to have harvest in my croft, then may i dight my dinner as me dearly liketh." piers speaks here of a bad year; but even his modest comfort required hard work of all kinds and in all weathers. as the ploughman says in another place-- "i have been truth's servant all this fifty winter, both y-sowen his seed and sued his beasts, within and withouten waited his profits. i dike and i delve, i do what truth biddeth; some time i sow and some time i thresh, in tailor's craft and tinker's craft, what truth can devise, i weave and i wind, and do what truth biddeth."[ ] [illustration: the ploughman from the louterell psalter (early th century)] in contrast with piers stands the great crowd of beggars--soldiers discharged from the wars, and sturdy vagrants who fear nothing but labour--"beggars with bags, which brewhouses be their churches," as the poet writes in the racy style affected in modern times by mrs. gamp. the roads were crowded with wandering minstrels "that will neither swink nor sweat, but swear great oaths, and find up foul fantasies, and fools them maken; and yet have wit at will to work, if they would." lowest of all (except the outlaws and felons who haunt the thickets and forests) come the professional tramps-- "for they live in no love, nor no law they holden, they wed no woman wherewith they dealen, bring forth bastards, beggars of kind. or the back or some bone they breaken of their children, and go feigning with their infants for evermore after. there are more misshapen men among such beggars than of many other men that on this mould walken." but the great pestilence had bred yet another class odious to piers plowman--strikers, as they would be called in modern english--the men who thought their labour was worth more than the miserable price at which parliament was constantly trying to fix it under the heaviest penalties. these were they of whom the commons complained in that "they contrive by great malice prepense to evade the penalty of the aforesaid ordinances and statutes; for so soon as their masters chide them for evil service, or would fain pay them for their aforesaid service according to the form of the said statutes, suddenly they flee and disperse away from their service and from their own district, from county to county, from hundred to hundred, from town to town, into strange places unknown to their said masters, who know not where to find them.... and the greater part of such runaway labourers become commonly stout thieves, wherefrom robberies and felonies increase everywhere from day to day, to the destruction of the aforesaid realm."[ ] the worst effect of a law which attempted to fix wages everywhere and chain the labourer to one master or one parish, was to drive into rebellion indiscriminately the honest man who wanted to sell his work in an open market, and the idler who was glad to escape in company with his betters. no doubt there was a half-truth in the satire on the pretensions of these labourers for whom the old wages no longer sufficed, and who, in spite of the law, often managed to enforce their claim-- "labourers that have no land to live on, but their hands, deigned not to dine to-day on last night's cabbage; may no penny-ale please them, nor a piece of bacon, but it be fresh flesh or fish, fried or y-baken, and that _chaud_ and _plus chaud_ for the chill of their maw."[ ] but sometimes the law too had its way; and for years before the great revolt the countryside swarmed with such statute-made malefactors, together with those other outcasts so graphically described in jusserand's "vie nomade" (pt. ii., c. ). meanwhile there lived and died, in the background, the thousands who, for all their honest toil, struggled on daily from hand to mouth, knowing no bible truth more true than this, that god had cursed the ground for adam's sake. these are the true poor--"god's minstrels," as they are called in "piers plowman"; those upon whom our alms cannot possibly be ill-spent-- "the most needy are our neighbours, an we take good heed, as prisoners in pits and poor folk in cotes charged with children and chief lordës rent; that they with spinning may spare, spend they it in house-hire, both in milk and in meal to make therewith papelots to glut therewith their children that cry after food. also themselves suffer much hunger, and woe in wintertime, with waking a-nights to rise to the ruel to rock the cradle ... both to card and to comb, to clout and to wash to rub and to reel, and rushes to peel, that ruth is to read, or in rime to show the woe of these women that woneth in cotes; and many other men that much woe suffren, both a-hungered and athirst, to turn the fair side outward, and be abashëd for to beg, and will not be a-known what them needeth to their neighbours at noon and at even. this i wot witterly, as the world teacheth, what other men behoveth that have many children and have no chattels but their craft to clothe them and to feed and fele to fong thereto, and few pence taken. there is payn and penny-ale as for a pittance y-taken, cold flesh and cold fish for venison y-baken; fridays and fasting-days, a farthing's worth of mussels were a feast for such folk, or so many cockles."[ ] how many such cottages did chaucer, like ourselves, pass on his ride to canterbury? in all ages the sufferings of the very poor have been limited only by the bounds of that which flesh and blood can endure. chapter xxi merry england "in the holidays all the summer the youths are exercised in leaping, dancing, shooting, wrestling, casting the stone, and practising their shields; the maidens trip in their timbrels, and dance as long as they can well see. in winter, every holiday before dinner, the boars prepared for brawn are set to fight, or else bulls and bears are baited. when the great fen, or moor, which watereth the walls of the city on the north side, is frozen, many young men play upon the ice; some, striding as wide as they may, do slide swiftly; others make themselves seats of ice, as great as millstones; one sits down, many hand in hand to draw him, and one slipping on a sudden, all fall together; some tie bones to their feet and under their heels; and shoving themselves by a little piked staff, do slide as swiftly as a bird flieth in the air, or an arrow out of a cross-bow. sometime two run together with poles, and hitting one the other, either one or both do fall, not without hurt; some break their arms, some their legs, but youth desirous of glory in this sort exerciseth itself against the time of war."--fitzstephen's "description of london," translated by john stow. where in the meantime was merry england? in the sense in which the phrase is often used, as a mere political or social catchword, it lay for chaucer, as for us, in the haze of an imaginary past. englishmen were even then more fortunate in their lot than many continental nations; but they had already serious responsibilities to bear. the glory of that age lies less in thoughtless merrymaking than in a brave and steady struggle--with the elements, with circumstances, and with fellow-man. even in chaucer's time englishmen took their pleasures sadly in comparison with frenchmen and italians. we cannot say that our forefathers enjoyed life less than we do, but we can certainly say that theirs was a life which we could enjoy only after a process of acclimatization; and they lacked almost altogether one of the most valued privileges of modern civilization--the undisturbed conduct of our own little house and our own small affairs, the established peace and order under cover of which even an artisan may now pursue his own hobbies with a sense of personal independence and a tranquil certitude of the morrow for which roger bacon would cheerfully have sacrificed a hand or an eye. such tranquillity might conceivably be bought at the price of nobler virtues, but it is in itself one of the most justly prized conquests of civilization, and we may seek it vainly in our past. however, as life was undoubtedly more picturesque in the th century, so the enjoyment also was more on the surface. fitzstephen's brief catalogue of the londoners' relaxations is charming; and, even when we have made all allowance for the poetical colours lavished by an antiquary who saw everything through a haze of distant memory and regret, stow's descriptions of city merrymakings are among the most delightful pages of history. hours of labour were long,[ ] and for village folk there was no great choice of amusements; yet there is a whole world of delight to be found in the most elementary field sports. moreover, the most expansive enjoyment is often natural to those who have otherwise least freedom; witness the bank-holiday excitement of our own days and the negro passion for song and dance. the holy-days on which the church forbade work amounted to something like one a week; and though there are frequent complaints that these were ill kept, equally widespread and emphatic is the testimony to noisy merriment on them; they bred more drunkenness and crime, we are assured by anxious churchmen, than all the rest of the year.[ ] indeed, it is from judicial records that we may glean by far the fullest details about the games of our ancestors; and a brilliant archivist like siméon luce, when he undertakes to give a picture of popular games in the france of chaucer's day, draws almost exclusively on royal proclamations and court rolls.[ ] from the universities, sacred haunts of modern athleticism, down to the smallest country parish, we get the same picture of sports flourishing under considerable discouragement from the powers in being, but flourishing all the same, and taking a still more boisterous tinge from the injudicious attempts to suppress them altogether. "alike in the universities and out of them," writes dr. rashdall on the subject of games, "the asceticism of the medieval ideal provoked and fostered the wildest indulgence in actual life." even chess was among the "noxious, inordinate, and unhonest games" expressly forbidden to the scholars of new college by william of wykeham's statutes,[ ] and indeed throughout the middle ages this was a pastime which led to more gambling and quarrels than most others. a very curious quarrel at cudgel-play outside the walls of oxford is recorded in the "munimenta academica" (rolls series, p. ). at cambridge it was forbidden under penalty of forty pence to play tennis in the town. at oxford we find four citizens compelled to abjure the same game solemnly before the vice-chancellor; and readers both of froissart and of the preface to "ivanhoe" will remember violent feuds arising from it.[ ] in the bishop of exeter, while pleading that he has always kept open the doors of the cathedral cloisters at all reasonable times, adds, "at which times, and in especial in time of divine service, ungodly-ruled people (most customably young people of the said commonalty) within the said cloister have exercised unlawful games, as the top, queke, penny-prick, and most at tennis, by the which all the walls of the said cloister have been defouled and the glass windows all to-burst."[ ] as early as , the laws of london forbade playing at football in the fields near the city; and this was among the games which, by royal proclamation of , were to give place to the all-important sport of archery. others forbidden at the same time were quoits, throwing the hammer, hand-ball, club-ball, and golf. indeed, from this ancient and royal game down to leap-frog and "conquerors," nearly all our present sports were familiar, in more or less developed forms, to our ancestors. in , edward iii. had to proclaim "let no boy or other person, under pain of imprisonment, play in any part of westminster palace, during the parliament now summoned, at bars [_i.e._ prisoners' base] or other games, or at snatch-hood"; and john myrc instructs the parish clergy to forbid to their parishioners in general all "casting of ax-tree and eke of stone ... ball and bars and suchlike play" in the churchyard.[ ] wrestling, again, was among the most popular sports, and one of those which gave most trouble to coroners. the two great wrestling matches in between the citizens of london and the suburbans ended in a riot which assumed almost the dignity of a rebellion. fatal wrestling-bouts, like fatal games of chess, are among the stock incidents of medieval romance; whether the enemy was to be got rid of through the hands of a professional champion (as in the quasi-chaucerian "tale of gamelyn") or by such foul play as is described in the pardoner's tale-- arise, as though thou wouldest with him play, and i shall rive him through the sidës way, while that thou strugglest with him as in game; and with thy dagger look thou do the same. moreover, the same tragedy might only too easily be played unintentionally, as in the ballad of the "two brothers"-- they warsled up, they warsled down till john fell to the ground; a dirk fell out of willie's pouch, and gave him a deadly wound. or, as it is recorded in the business-like prose of an assize-roll: "richard of horsley was playing and wrestling with john the miller of tutlington; and by mishap his knife fell from its sheath and wounded the aforesaid john without the aforesaid richard's knowledge, so that he died. and the aforesaid richard fled and is not suspected of the death; let him therefore return if he will, but let his chattels be confiscated for his flight. (n.b. he has no chattels)."[ ] in this same assize-roll, out of forty-three accidental deaths, three were due to village games, and three more to sticks or stones aimed respectively at a cock, a dog, and a pig, but finding their fatal billet in a human life. ecclesiastical disciplinarians endeavoured frequently, but with indifferent success, to put down the practice of wrestling in churchyards, with the scarcely less turbulent miracle-plays or dances, and the markets which so frequently stained the holy ground with blood. even the state interfered in the matter of churchyard fairs and markets "for the honour of holy church"; but they went on gaily as before. dances, as i have already had occasion to note, were condemned with a violence which is only partially explained even by chaucer's illuminating lines about the parish clerk-- in twenty manners could he skip and dance, (after the school of oxenfordë, though,) and with his leggës casten to and fro.[ ] to quote here again from dr. rashdall, "william of wykeham found it necessary for the protection of the sculpture in the chapel reredos to make a statute against dancing or jumping in the chapel or adjoining hall. his language is suggestive of that untranslatable amusement now known as 'ragging,' which has no doubt formed a large part of the relaxation of students--at least of english students--in all ages. at the same college there is a comprehensive prohibition of all 'struggling, chorus-singing, dancing, leaping, singing, shouting, tumult and inordinate noise, pouring forth of water, beer, and all other liquids and tumultuous games' in the hall, on the ground that they were likely to disturb the occupants of the chaplain's chamber below. a moderate indulgence in some of the more harmless of these pastimes in other places seems to be permitted."[ ] in this, the good bishop was only following the very necessary precedent of many prelates before him. as early as , when the reform of the friars had stimulated a great effort to put down old abuses throughout the church, bishop poore of salisbury and his diocesan council decreed "we forbid the holding of dances, or base and unhonest games which provoke to lasciviousness, in the churchyard.... we forbid the proclaiming of scot-ales in church by layfolk, or by priests or clerks either in or without the church." similar prohibitions are repeated by later councils with an emphasis which only shows their inefficiency. the university of oxford complained to henry v. in that fairs and markets were held "more frequently than ever" on consecrated ground; and the visitation of among churches appropriated to york cathedral elicited the fact that football and similar games were carried on in two of the churchyards. these holy places sometimes witnessed rougher sports still; especially cathedral cemeteries during the great processions of the ecclesiastical year. "moreover," writes bishop grosseteste in a circular letter to all his archdeacons, "cause it to be proclaimed strictly in every church that, when the parishes come in procession for the yearly visitation and homage to the cathedral church, no parish shall struggle to press before another parish with its banners; since from this source not only quarrels are wont to spring, but cruel bloodshed." bishop giffard of worcester was compelled for the same reason to proclaim in every church of his diocese "that no one shall join in the pentecostal processions with a sword or other kind of arms"; and a similar prohibition in the diocese of ely ( ) is based on the complaint that "both fights and deaths are wont to result therefrom." even more were the minds of the best clergy exercised by the corpse-wakes in churches, which "turned the house of mourning and prayer into a house of laughter and excess"; and again by "the execrable custom of keeping the 'feast of fools,' which obtains in some churches," and which "profanes the sacred anniversary of the lord's circumcision with the filth of lustful pleasures"; yet here again the tenacity of popular custom baffled even the most vigorous prelates.[ ] we must not pass away from popular amusements without one glance at these above-mentioned scot-ales, which were probably relics of the anglo-saxon semi-religious drinking-bouts. in the later middle ages they appear as forerunners of the modern bazaar or religious tea; a highly successful device for raising money contributions by an appeal to the convivial instincts of a whole parish or district. in the early th century we find them denounced among the methods employed by sheriffs for illegal extortion; and about the same time they were very frequently condemned from the religious point of view. the clergy were not only forbidden to be present at such functions, but also directed to warn their parishioners diligently against them, "for the health of their souls and bodies," since all who took part at such feasts were excommunicated. but the custom died hard; or rather, it was probably rebaptized, like so many other relics of paganism; and the change seems to have taken place during chaucer's lifetime. in bishop langham of ely was still fulminating against scot-ales; in , if not before, we find an authorized system of "church-ales" in aid of the fabric. these were held sometimes in the sacred edifice itself; more often in the church houses, the rapid multiplication of which during the th century is probably due to the equally rapid growth of church-ales. the puritanism of the th century was by this time somewhat out of fashion; parish finances had come far more under the parishioners' own control; and it was obviously convenient to make the best of these time-honoured compotations, as of the equally rough-and-ready hock-day customs, in order to meet expenses for which the parish was legally responsible. earnest churchmen had, all through this century, more important abuses to combat than these quasi-religious convivialities; and we find no voice raised against church-ales until the new puritanism of the reformation. the canons of forbade, among other abuses, "church ale drinkings ... in the church, chapel, or churchyard." while bishop piers of bath and wells testified that he saw no harm in them, the puritan stubbes accused the participants of becoming "as drunk as rats, and as blockish as brute beasts." no doubt the truth lies between these extremes; but church-ales must not be altogether forgotten when we read the numerous medieval testimonies to the intimate connection between holy days and crime.[ ] perhaps the most widespread and most natural of all country sports was that of poaching. as dr. rashdall has pointed out, it was especially popular at the two universities, where the paucity of authorized amusements drove the students into wilder extremes. we have also abundant records of clerical poachers; and in richard ii. enacted at the petition of the commons "that no priest or clerk with less than ten pounds of yearly income should keep greyhounds, 'leetes' or other hunting dogs, nor ferrets, nets, or snares." the same petition complained that "artificers and labourers--that is to say, butchers, cobblers, tailors, and other working-folk, keep greyhounds and other dogs; and at the time when good christians are at church on holy-days, hearing their divine services, these go hunting in the parks, coney-covers, and warrens pertaining to lords and other folk, and destroy them utterly." it was therefore enacted that no man with an income of less than forty shillings should presume to keep hunting dogs or implements. but in spite of squires and church synods, the working-man did all he could to escape, in his own untutored fashion, from the dullness of his working days. every turn of life, from the cradle to the grave, was seized upon as an excuse for rough-and-ready sports. when a witness wishes to give a reason for remembering a christening on a certain day, he testifies to having broken his leg in the baptismal football match. bishops struggled against the practice of celebrating marriages in taverns, lest the intending bride and bridegroom should plight their troth in liquor; and weddings in general were so uproarious as to be sometimes ruled out as too improper not only for a monk's attendance but even for that of serious and pious layfolk. similar survivals of barbaric sports clung to the funeral ceremonies--the _wakë-pleyes_ of chaucer's knight's tale; and archbishop thoresby's constitutions of seem to speak of wrestling matches held even in the church by the side of the dead man's bier. such things could scarcely have happened without some clerical connivance; and in fact, the sporting parson was as common in chaucer's as in fielding's day. the hunting monk of his "prologue" is abundantly vouched for by the despairing complaints of ecclesiastical disciplinarians; and the parish parson, so often a peasant by birth, constantly set at naught the prohibitions of his superiors, to join with tenfold zest in the least decorous pastimes of his village flock. while archbishops in council legislated repeatedly and vainly against the hunting and tavern-haunting priest, swaggering about with a sword at his side or the least decent of lay doublets and hosen on his limbs, the homely lollard satirist vented his scorn on this parson trulliber, who contrasted so startlingly with chaucer's parson adams-- for the tithing of a duck or of an apple, or of an ey [egg they make man swear upon a book; thus they foulen christës fay. [faith such bearen evilly heaven's key; they may assoil, and they may shrive, with mennës wivës strongly play, with truë tillers sturt and strive [struggle at the wrestling, and at the wake, and chiefë chanters at the ale; market-beaters, and meddling-make, hopping and hooting with heave and hale. at fairë fresh, and at wine stale; dine, and drink, and make debate; the seven sacraments set a-sale; how keep such the keys of heaven gate? ("political poems" (r.s.), i., ). chapter xxii the king's peace "accident plays a greater part in the fourteenth century than perhaps at any other epoch.... at bottom society was neither quite calm nor quite settled, and many of its members were still half savage."--jusserand, "english wayfaring life." the key to these contrasts, and much else that we are slow to imagine in medieval life, lies in the comparative simplicity of that earlier civilization. we must indeed beware of exaggerating this simplicity; there were already many complex threads of social development; again, the subtle tyranny of custom and opinion has in all primitive societies a power which we find it hard to realize. but certainly work and play were far less specialized in chaucer's day than in ours; far less definitely sorted into different pigeon-holes of life. the drinking-bouts and rough games which scandalized the reformers of the th century had once been religious ceremonies themselves; and the two ideas were still confused in the popular mind. if, again, justice was so anxious to forbid popular sports, this was partly because some of her own proceedings still smacked strongly of the primeval sporting instinct for which her growing dignity now began to blush. the scenic penances of the pillory and cucking-stool were among the most popular spectacles in every town; and a trial by battle "till the stars began to appear" must often have been a better show than a tournament, even without such further excitement as would be afforded by the match between a woman and a one-armed friar, or the searching of a bishop's champion for the contraband prayers and incantations sewn under his clothes, or the miracle by which a defeated combatant, who was supposed to have been blinded and emasculated in due course of justice, was found afterwards to be perfectly whole again by saintly intercession. still more exciting were the hue and cry after a felon, his escape to some sanctuary, and his final race for life or "abjuration of the realm." what vivid recollections there must have been in chaucer's family, for instance, of his great-uncle's death under circumstances which are thus drily recorded by the coroner (november , ): "the jurors say that simon chaucer and one robert de upton, skinner, ... after dinner, quarrelled with one another in the high street opposite to the shop of the said robert, in the said parish, by reason of rancour previously had between them, whereupon simon wounded robert on the upper lip; which john de upton, son of robert, perceiving, he took up a 'dorbarre,' without the consent of his father, and struck simon on the left hand and side, and on the head, and then fled into the church of st. mary of aldermari-chirche; and in the night following he secretly escaped from the same. he had no chattels. simon lived, languishing, till the said tuesday, when he died of the blows, early in the morning.... the sheriffs are ordered to attach the said john when he can be found in their bailiwick, ..." there was an evident sporting element in this race for sanctuary, and the subsequent secret escape; and we cannot help feeling some sympathy with the son whose dorbarre had intervened so unwisely, yet so well. but this affair, except for its chaucerian interest, is commonplace; to realize the true humours of criminal justice one needs to read through a few pages of the records published by the surtees society, professors maitland and thorold rogers, dr. gross, and mr. walter rye. we may there find how seman the hermit was robbed, beaten, and left for dead by gilbert of niddesdale; how gilbert unluckily fell next day into the hands of the king's serjeant, and the hermit had still strength enough to behead his adversary in due form of law, the northumberland custom being that a victim could redeem his stolen goods only by doing the executioner's dirty work; how, again, thomas the reeve wished to chastise his concubine with a cudgel, but casually struck and killed the child in her arms, and the jury brought it in a mere accident; how an unknown woman came and bewitched john of kerneslaw in his own house one evening, so that the said john used to make the sign of the cross over his loins when any man said _benedicite_; how in a fit of fury he thrust the witch through with a spear, and her corpse was solemnly burned, while he was held to have done the deed "in self-defence, as against the devil;" or, again, how hugh maidenlove escaped from norwich castle with his fellow sheep-stealer william the clerk, and carried him stealthily on his back to the sanctuary of st. john in berstreet, by reason that the said william's feet were so putrefied by the duress of the prison that he could not walk.[ ] let us take in full, as throwing a more intimate light on law and police, another case with a different beginning and a different ending to simon chaucer's (november , ). "it came to pass at yelvertoft ... that a certain william of wellington, parish chaplain of yelvertoft, sent john his parish clerk to john cobbler's house to buy candles, namely a pennyworth. but the same john would not send them without the money; wherefore the aforesaid william waxed wroth, took a stick, and went to the house of the said john and broke in the door upon him and smote this john on the fore part of the head with the same stick, so that his brains gushed forth and he died forthwith. and [william] fled hastily to the church of yelvertoft.... inquest was made before j. of buckingham by four neighbouring townships, to wit, yelverton, crick, winwick and lilbourne. they say on their oath as aforesaid, that they know no man guilty of john's death save the said william of wellington. he therefore came before the aforesaid coroner and confessed that he had slain the said john; wherefore he abjured the realm of england in the presence of the said four townships brought together [for this purpose]. and the port of dover was assigned to him."[ ] this "abjuration of the realm," a custom of english growth, which our kings transplanted also into normandy, was one of the most picturesque scenes of medieval life. it was designed to obviate some of the abuses of that privilege of sanctuary which had no doubt its real uses in those days of club-law. what happened in fact to william of wellington, we may gather not only from legal theorists of the middle ages, but from the number of actual cases collected by réville.[ ] the criminal remained at bay in the church; and no man might as yet hinder john his clerk from bringing him food, drink, or any other necessary. the coroner came as soon as he could, generally within three or four days at longest; but he might possibly be detained for ten days or more, and meanwhile (to quote from an actual case in ) "the parish kept watch over him ... and the coroner found the aforesaid william in the said church, and asked him wherefore he was there, and whether or not he would yield himself to the king's peace." the matter was too plain for william to deny; his confession was duly registered, and he took his oath to quit the realm within forty days.[ ] coming to the gate of the church or churchyard, he swore solemnly before the assembled crowd: "oyez, oyez, oyez! coroner and other good folk: i, william de wellington, for the crime of manslaughter which i have committed, will quit this land of england nevermore to return, except by leave of the kings of england or their heirs: so help me god and his saints!" the coroner then assigned him a port, and a reasonable time for the journey; from yelverton it would have been about a week. his bearing during this week was minutely prescribed: never to stray from the high-road, or spend two nights in the same place; to make straight for his port, and to embark without delay. if at dover he found no vessel ready to sail, then he was bound daily to walk into the sea up to his knees--or, according to stricter authorities, up to his neck--and to take his rest only on the shore, in proof that he was ready in spirit to leave the land which by his crimes he had forfeited. his dress meanwhile was that of a felon condemned to death--a long, loose white tunic, bare feet, and a wooden cross in his hand to mark that he was under protection of holy church. such abjurations were matters of common occurrence; yet dover beach was not crowded with these unwilling pilgrims. a few, of course, were overtaken and slain on the way, in spite of their sacred character, by the friends of the murdered man. but many more must have reflected that, since they would find neither friends nor welcome abroad, there was less risk in taking their chance as runaways at home. if caught, they were liable to be strung up out of hand; but how many chances there must have been in the fugitive's favour! and, even in the last resort, some plausible excuse might possibly soften the captors' hearts. one criminal, who might possibly even have rubbed shoulders with chaucer in london, pleaded that he had taken sanctuary and been torn from the altar. this was disproved, and he took refuge in a convenient dumbness. for such afflictions the middle ages knew a sovereign remedy, and he was led forthwith to the gallows. here he found his tongue again, and pleaded clergy; but he failed to read his neck-verse, and was hanged. often the miserable homesick wanderers came back and tried to save their lives by turning approvers against fellow-criminals. in parliament had to interfere, and ruled that john english [_lengleyse_], who three years before had slain the mayor of lynn, taken sanctuary, and abjured the realm, could not now be suffered to purchase his own pardon by accusing others. what happened, it may be asked, if william refused either to acknowledge his guilt or to stand his trial, and simply clung to the sanctuary? at least half the criminals thus refused; and here even theory was uncertain. if, at the end of his forty days of grace, the lay authorities tore him from the altar, then they were pretty sure of excommunication from the bishop. the lawyers held, therefore, that it was for the ordinary, the archdeacon, the parson, to expel this man who had outstayed even the ecclesiastical welcome; but we all know the risk of dragging even a good-tempered dog from under a chair where he has taken refuge; and how could the poor bishop be expected to deal with this desperado? the matter was thus, like so many others, left very much to chance. the village did its best to starve the man out, and meanwhile to watch him night and day. one offending william, whose forty days had expired on august , , held out against this blockade until september , when he fled. then there was a hue and cry of the whole village; he might indeed run the gauntlet and make good his escape, leaving his quondam neighbours to prove before the justices that they had done all they could, or to pay a fine for their negligence. often, however, a stick or stone would bring him down at close quarters, or an arrow from afar; then in a moment he was overpowered and beheaded, and that chase was remembered for years as the greatest event in yelvertoft. there was indeed one gross irregularity in the case of sir william de wellington, but an irregularity which modern readers will readily pardon. becket had given his life for the freedom of the church as he conceived it, and especially for the principle that no cleric should be punished by the lay courts for any offence, however heinous. the death of "the holy blissful martyr" did indeed establish this principle in theory; and, with the most powerful corporation in the world to protect it, it was, in fact, kept far more strictly than most legal theories. william, therefore, after dashing john the cobbler's brains upon the floor, might well have found it necessary to take refuge in the church from the blind fury of summary and illegal vengeance; but he need not have abjured the realm. in theory he had simply to confess his offence, or to stand his trial and suffer conviction from the king's judges; then the bishop's commissary stepped forward and claimed the condemned clerk in the name of the church. the bishop, disregarding the verdict of the jury, would try him again by the primitive process of compurgation; that is, would bid him present himself with a specified number of fellow-clergy or persons of repute, who would join william in swearing on the bible to his innocence. in this particular case william would probably have failed to find proper compurgators, and the bishop might, if he had chosen, have imprisoned him for life. but this involved very considerable expense and responsibility; it was a more invidious and costly matter than to prosecute nowadays for alleged illegal practices, and the documents show us very clearly that only the smallest fraction of these criminous clerks were imprisoned for any length of time. indeed, for any such strict system, the episcopal prisons would have needed to be ten times their actual size. equally seldom do we find notices of the next drastic punishment in the bishop's power--the total degradation of the offender from his orders, after which the lay judges might punish him unchallenged for his second crime. many of the guilty parties did, in fact, "purge" themselves successfully, and were thus let loose on society as before; this we have on the unimpeachable testimony of the oxford chancellor gascoigne, even if it were not sufficiently evident from the records themselves. the notoriously guilty received more or less inadequate punishments, and were sometimes simply shunted on to another diocese, a shifting of responsibility which was practised even by the strictest of reforming prelates. the curious reader may trace for himself, in the english summaries from bishop giffard's register, the practical working of these clerical privileges.[ ] first, there are frequent records of criminous clerks handed over to the bishop, in the ordinary routine, by the lay justices. sometimes the bishop had to interfere in a more summary fashion, as when he commissioned four rural deans "to cause robert, rector of the church of the blessed mary in the market of bristol, to be released, he being suspected of homicide having fled to the church, and having been besieged here; and to excommunicate all who should oppose them" ( ). robert had not yet gone through any formal trial; the bishop apparently rescued him merely from the fury of the people; but, even if he had been tried and condemned by the king's courts, he had still a liberal chance of escape. a few pages further in the register ( ) we find a declaration "that whereas william de capella, an acolyte, was accused and condemned for the death of john gogun of pershore, before the justices itinerant at worcester, and was on demand of the bishop's commissary delivered up by the same justices, the same william being afterwards examined before the sub-prior of worcester and geoffrey de cubberlay, clerk, solemnly declared that he was in nowise guilty; and at length upon proclamations, no one opposing, with four priests, two sub-deacons, and six acolytes, his compurgators, he was admitted to purgation and declared innocent of the said crime; and after giving security to answer any accusers if required, he was permitted to depart freely. and it is forbidden under pain of anathema to any one to lay such homicide to the charge of the said william." sometimes, however, the scandal was too notorious; and, though no mere layman had the least legal right to interfere with the bishop's own private justice, the king would apply pressure in the name of common sense. so on page we find a "letter from king edward i. to john peckham, archbishop of canterbury, desiring him to refuse purgation to robert de lawarre, a clerk accused of theft and homicide and in the gaol of worcester;" and a few months later the same strenuous champion of justice sent a more general warning to the bishop of worcester, "forbidding him to take the purgation of clerks detained in his prison, whose crimes are notorious; but with regard to others he may take such purgation" ( ). the system was, indeed, notoriously faulty, and did much to encourage that venality in the clerical courts which moved chaucer's laughter and the indignation of his contemporaries. the clergy, says gower, are judges in their own cause, and each shields the other: "my turn to-day; to-morrow thou shalt do the like for me." in vain did councils decree year after year that they should bear no arms; rectors (as we have seen in chapter viii.) imperturbably bequeathed their formidable daggers by will, and duly registered the bequest in the bishop's court. "o priest, answer to my call; wherefore hast thou so long a knife dangling at thy belt? art thou armed to fight in god's quarrel or the devil's?... the wild beast in rutting-season becomes fiercer and more wanton; if ever he be thwarted, forthwith he will fight and strike; and that is the same cause why the priests fight when they turn to lechery like beasts; they wander idly everywhere seeking and hunting for women, with whom they corrupt the country."[ ] a century later the commons pressed the king for fresh and more stringent laws to remedy the notorious fact that "upon trust of the privilege of the church, divers persons have been the more bold to commit murder, rape, robbery, theft, and other mischievous deeds, because they have been continually admitted to the benefit of the clergy as often as they did offend in any of the [aforesaid]." this petition of the commons and the act which resulted from it, had already often been anticipated by the rough-and-ready justice of the people themselves. in , the citizens of london took these matters into their own hands, and chaucer had probably seen more than one unchaste priest marched with his guilty partner to the common lock-up in cornhill, to the accompaniment of derisive music, and amid the jeers of the populace. eight years after his death, the city authorities began to keep a regular record of such cases, and "letter-book," i, "contains some dozens of similar charges, mostly against chaplains celebrating in the city, temp. henry iv. to henry vi."[ ] this lynch-law is abundantly explained by the very disproportionate numbers of criminous clerks whom we often find recorded in coroners' or assize rolls, and who were frequently no mere shavelings, but priests and substantial incumbents.[ ] in these men were almost above the law; in they were amenable to justice as though they had not been anointed with oil; in it depended (as in london and in this yelvertoft case) whether the popular indignation was strong enough to beat down the clerical privilege. "accident plays a more important part in the th century than in any other age," and in many ways england was no doubt the merrier for this. prosaic and uniform modern justice, bewigged as well as blindfolded, could no more have been foreseen by chaucer than railways or life insurance. first of all, there was the chance of bribing the judge in the regular and acknowledged way of business.[ ] then, the prospect of a royal pardon; edward iii. more than once proclaimed such a general amnesty; and a petition of the commons in , forthwith embodied in an act of parliament, is eloquent on the "outrageous mischiefs and damages which have befallen the realm because treasons, murders, and rapes of women are too commonly perpetrated; and all the more so because charters of pardon have been too lightly granted in such cases." the terms of the petition and bill, and the heroic measures of remedy, are sufficiently significant of the state of things with which the reformers had to contend.[ ] moreover, justice offered at every point a series of splendid uncertainties, and a thousand giddy turns of fortune's wheel. apart from the practical impunity of the powerful, even the poorest felon had more chances in his favour than the modern plutocrat; for there is no higher prize than a man's own life, and no american millionaire enjoys facilities for homicide equal to those of our th-century villagers. such regrettable incidents, as reckoned from the coroners' rolls, were from five to forty times more frequent then than in our days--it depends whether we count them as mere manslaughters or, according to the stricter idea of modern justice, as downright murders. no doubt stabbing was never so frequent or so systematic in england as at naples; but thousands of worthy englishmen might have cried with chaucer's host, "for i am perilous with knife in hand!" many readers have doubtless noted how, in this very passage, harry bailey reckons as probable punishment for homicide not the gallows, but only outlawry-- i wot well she will do me slay some day some neighëbour, and thennë go my way.... the fact is that judicial statistics of the middle ages show the murderer to have had many more chances of survival than a convicted thief. the northumberland roll of (to choose a typical instance) gives homicides to only accidental deaths. these deaths were brought home to culprits, of whom only are recorded to have been hanged. of the remainder, escaped altogether, took sanctuary, were never identified, pleaded his clergy, was imprisoned, and was fined. to a mind of any imagination, such bare facts will often open wider vistas than a great deal of so-called poetry. there can be no truer commentary on the "tale of gamelyn" or the "geste of robin hood" than these formal assize rolls. the justice's clerk drones on, with damnable iteration, paragraph after paragraph, "alan fuller ... and he fled, and therefore let him be outlawed; chattels he hath none"; "patrick scot ... fled ... outlawed"; "william slater ... fled ... outlawed"; but all the while we see the broad sunshine outside the windows, and hear the rustle of the forest leaves, and voices whisper in our ear-- he must needës walk in wood that may not walk in town. * * * * * in summer, when the shaws be sheen, and leaves be large and long, it is full merry in fair forest to hear the fowlës' song. chapter xxiii priests and people "charity is a childlike thing, as holy church witnesseth; as proud of a penny as of a pound of gold, and all so glad of a gown of grey russet as of a coat of damask or of clean scarlet. he is glad with all glad, as girls that laughen all, and sorry when he seeth men sorry; as thou seest children ... laugh when men laughen, and lower where men low'ren.... and in a friar's frock he was found once, but that is far and many years, in francis' time; in that suit since too seldom hath he been found." "piers plowman," b., xvii., , when the greatest pope of the th century saw in his dream a vision of st. francis propping the tottering church, both he and the saint augured from this happy omen a reformation more sudden and complete than was actually possible. church historians of all schools have often seemed to imply that if st. francis had come back to earth on the first or second centenary of his death, he would have found the church rather worse than better; and certainly chaucer's contemporaries thought so. it is probable that in this they were mistaken; that the higher life was in fact unfolding no less surely in religion than in the state, but that men's impatience of evils which were only too obvious, and a restlessness bred by the rapid growth of new ideas, tempted them to despair too easily of their own age. the failure of the friars became a theme of common talk, as soon as enough time had gone by for the world to realize that francis and dominic had but done what man can do, and that there was as yet no visibly new heaven or new earth. wycliffe himself scarcely inveighed more strongly against many of the worst abuses in the church than bonaventura a century before him--bonaventura, the canonized saint and minister general of the franciscans, who as a boy had actually seen the founder face to face. the current of thought during those hundred years is typified by dante and the author of "piers plowman." dante, bitterly as he rebuked the corruptions of the age, still dreamed of reform on conservative lines. in "piers plowman" it is frankly recognized that things must be still worse before they can be better. the church is there described as already succumbing to the assaults of antichrist, aided by "proud priests more than a thousand"-- 'by mary!' quoth a cursed priest of the march of ireland, 'i count no more conscience, if only i catch silver, than i do to drink a draught of good ale!' and so said sixty of the same country, and shotten again with shot, many a sheaf of oaths, and broad hookèd arrows, '_god's heart!_' and '_god's nails!_' and had almost unity and holy church adown. conscience cried 'help, clergy,[ ] or else i fall through imperfect priests and prelates of holy church.' friars heard him cry, and camen him to help; but, for they knew not their craft, conscience forsook them. one friar, however, is admitted, brother "creep-into-houses," but he turns out the worst traitor of all, benumbing contrition by his false absolutions-- sloth saw that, and so did pride, and came with a keen will conscience to assail. conscience cried oft, and bade clergy help him, and also contrition, for to keep the gate. 'he lieth and dreameth,' said peace, 'and so do many other; the friar with his physic this folk hath enchanted, and plastered them so easily, they dread no sin.' 'by christ!' quoth conscience then, 'i will become a pilgrim, and walken as wide as all the world lasteth to seek piers the plowman;[ ] that pride may be destroyed, and that friars have a finding,[ ] that for need flatteren, and counterplead me, conscience. now, kind me avenge and send me hap and heal, till i have piers the plowman.' and sith he cried after grace, till i gan awake. so ends this dreamer on the malvern hills, and so thought many more good christians of chaucer's time. it would be tedious even to enumerate the orthodox authorities which testify to the deep corruption of popular religion in the th century. two books of gower's "vox clamantis" (or one-third of the whole work) are devoted to invectives against the church of his time; and he goes over the same ground with equal minuteness in his "mirour de l'omme." the times are out of joint, he says, the light of faith grows dim; the clergy are mostly ignorant, quarrelsome, idle, and unchaste, and the prelates do not correct them because they themselves are no better. the average priests do the exact opposite of what chaucer praises in his poor parson; they curse for tithes, and leave their sheep in the lurch to go mass-hunting into the great towns. if, again, they stay unwillingly in the villages, then instead of preaching and visiting they waste their own time and the patrimony of the poor in riot or debauchery; nay, the higher clergy even encourage vice among the people in order to gain money and influence for themselves. their evil example among the multitude, and the contempt into which they bring their office among the better laity, are mainly responsible for the decay of society. of monks and nuns and friars, gower writes even more bitterly; the monks are frequently unchaste; nuns are sometimes debauched even by their own official visitors, and the friars seriously menace the purity of family life. in short, the reign of antichrist seems to be at hand; if the world is to be mended we can only pray god to reform the clergy. wycliffe himself wrote nothing more bitter than this; yet gower was a whole horizon removed from anti-clericalism or heresy; he hated lollardy, and chose to spend his last days among the canons of southwark. moreover, in the next generation, we have an equally scathing indictment of the church from gascoigne, another bitter anti-wycliffite and the most distinguished oxford chancellor of his generation. st. catherine of siena, who knew rome and avignon only too well, is proportionately more vehement in her indignation. moreover, the formal records of the church itself bear out all the gravest charges in contemporary literature. the parish churches were very frequently reported as neglected, dirty, and ruinous; the very service books and most necessary ornaments as either dilapidated or lacking altogether; priests and people as grossly irreverent.[ ] wherever we find a visitation including laity and clerics alike, the clergy presented for unchastity are always numerous out of all proportion to the laity; sometimes more than ten times as numerous. episcopal registers testify plainly to the difficulty of dealing with monastic decay and to the neglect of proper precautions against the intrusion of unworthy clerics into benefices. many of the anti-lollard articles solemnly presented by the university of oxford to the king in might have been drawn up by wycliffe himself. these pillars of the church pray henry v., who was known to have religion so much at heart, to find some remedy for the sale of indulgences, the "undisciplined and unlearned crowd which daily pressed to take sacred orders"; the scandalous ease with which "illiterate, silly, and ignorant" candidates, even if rejected by the english authorities, could get ordained at the roman court; the system which allowed monasteries to prey upon so many parishes; the pardoners' notorious frauds, the irreverence of the people at large, the embezzlement of hospital endowments, the debasement of moral standards by flattering friar-confessors, and lastly the numbers and practical impunity of fornicating monks, friars, and parish priests. as early as , the commons had petitioned edward iii. that, "whereas the prelates and ordinaries of holy church take money of clergy and laity in redemption of their sin from day to day, and from year to year, in that they keep their concubines openly ... to the open scandal and evil example of the whole commonalty," this system of hush-money should now be put down by royal authority; that the ordinary courts of justice should have cognizance of such cases; and that such beneficed clergy as still persisted in concubinage should be deprived of their livings.[ ] to comment fully on chaucer's clerical characters in the light of other contemporary documents would be to write a whole volume of church history; but no picture of that age could be even roughly complete without such a summary as i have just given. we must, of course, discount to some extent the language of indignation; but, to understand what it was that drew such bitter words from writers of such acknowledged gravity, we must try to transport ourselves, with our own common human feelings, into that strange and distant world. so much of the old framework of society was either ill-made or long since outworn; a new world was struggling to grow up freely amid the mass of dying conventions; the human spirit was surging vehemently against its barriers; and much was swept boisterously away. [illustration: the clergy-house at alfriston, sussex, before its recent restoration (for plan and section see p. )] think for a moment of the english boy as we know him; for in most essentials he was very much the same even five hundred years ago. at fifteen or sixteen (or even at an earlier age, if his family had sufficient influence) he might well receive a fat rectory or canonry. before the black death, an enormous proportion of the livings in lay advowson were given to persons who were not in priest's orders, and often not in holy orders at all.[ ] the church theoretically forbade with the utmost severity this intrusion of mere boys into the best livings; but all through the church the forbidden thing was done daily, and most shamelessly of all at the papal court. a strong bishop in the th century might indeed fight against the practice, but with slender success. giffard of worcester, a powerful and obstinate prelate, attempted in to enforce the recent decree of the ecumenical council of lyons, and declared the rectory of campden vacant because the incumbent had refused for three years past to qualify himself by taking priest's orders. after four years of desperate litigation, during which the pope twice intervened in a half-hearted and utterly ineffectual fashion, the bishop was obliged to leave the case to the judgment of the archbishop of canterbury, whose court enjoyed a reputation for venality only second to that of rome. other bishops seem to have given up all serious attempts to enforce the decree of the council of lyons; stapeldon of exeter, for instance, permitted nearly three-quarters of the first presentations by laymen to be made to persons who were not in priest's orders; and he commonly enjoined, after institution, that the new rector should go forthwith and study at the university. to appreciate the full significance of this, we must remember that boys habitually went up to oxford in those days at from thirteen to sixteen, and that the discipline there was of almost incredible laxity. the majority of students, after inscribing their names on the books of a master whose authority over them was almost nominal, went and lodged where they chose in the town. at the time when chaucer might have gone to oxford there were, perhaps, students; but (apart from the friaries and collegiate provision for a few monks) there were only five colleges, with accommodation in all for something less than eighty students. only one of these was of stone; not one was yet built in that quadrangular form which, adopted in chaucer's later days by new college, has since set the pattern for both universities; and the discipline was as rudimentary as the architecture. a further number of students were accommodated in "halls" or "hostels." these had originally been ordinary private houses, rented by two or more students in common; and the principal was simply an older student who made himself responsible for the rent. not until thirty years after chaucer's death was it enacted that the principal must be a b.a. at least; and since we find that at paris, where the same regulation was introduced about the same time, it was necessary even fifty years later to proceed against women who kept university halls, it is quite probable that the salutary statute was frequently broken at oxford also. the government of these halls was entirely democratic, and only at a later period was it possible even to close the gates on the students at night. these boys "were in general perfectly free to roam about the streets up to the hour at which all respectable citizens were in the habit, if not actually compelled by the town statutes, of retiring to bed. they might spend their evenings in the tavern and drink as much as they please. drunkenness is rarely treated as a university offence at all.... the penalties which are denounced and inflicted even for grave outrages are seldom severe, and never of a specially schoolboy character." "it is necessary to assert emphatically that the religious education of a bygone oxford, in so far as it ever had any existence, was an inheritance not from the middle ages but from the reformation. in catholic countries it was the product of the counter-reformation. until that time the church provided as little professional education for the future priest as it did religious instruction for the ordinary layman."[ ] the only religious education was that the student, like other citizens, was supposed to attend mass regularly on sundays and holy days, and might very likely know enough latin to follow the service. but the want of proper grounding in latin was always the weak point of these universities; it is probable that at least half the scholars left oxford without any degree whatever; and we have not only the general complaints of contemporaries, but actual records of examinations showing that quite a considerable proportion of the clergy could not decently construe the language of their own service-books. how, indeed, should the ordinary idle man have learned anything to speak of, under so rudimentary a system of teaching and discipline? gower asserts as strongly as wycliffe that the beneficed clergy escaped from their parishes to the university as to a place of riot and self-indulgence. if exeter was a typical diocese (and there seems no reason to the contrary) there must have been at any given time something like six hundred english rectors and vicars living at the universities with the licence of their bishops; and the registers show definite traces of others who took french leave. here, then, was a society in which boys were herded together with men of middle or advanced age, and in which the seniors were often the least decorous.[ ] no doubt the average boy escaped the company of those "chamberdekyns," of whom the oxford authorities complained that "they sleep all day, and prowl by night about taverns and houses of ill fame and occasions of homicide"; no doubt it was only a small minority at cambridge of whom men complained to parliament that they scoured the country in gangs for purposes of robbery and blackmail. but the average man cared no more for learning then than now, and had far fewer opportunities of study. the athleticism which is the refuge of modern idleness was severely discouraged by the authorities, while the tavern was always open. the bishop himself, by instituting this boy in his teens, had given his approval to the vicious system which gave the prizes of the church to the rich and powerful, and left a heavy proportion of the parish work to be done by a lower class of hireling "chaplains." these latter (who, like chaucer's poor parson, were mostly drawn from the peasant class) were willing to accept the lowest possible wages and the smallest possible chance of preferment for the sake of a position which, at the worst, put them far above their father or their brothers; and meanwhile the more fortunate rectors, little controlled either by their bishops or by public opinion, drifted naturally into the position of squarsons, hunters, and farmers. the large majority were precluded from almost all intellectual enjoyments by their imperfect education and the scarcity of books. the regular and healthy home life, which has kept so many an idle man straight in the world, was denied to these men, who were professionally pledged to live as the angels of god, while they stood exposed to every worldly temptation. the consequence was inevitable; orthodox writers for centuries before the reformation complained that the real fount and origin of heresy lay in the evil lives of the clergy. in outlying districts like wales, probably also in ireland, and certainly in parts of germany, clerical concubinage was systematically tolerated, and only taxed for the benefit of the bishop's or archdeacon's purse. the reader has already seen that this same system was often practised in england, though with less cynical effrontery. chapter xxiv conclusion "although the style [of chaucer] for the antiquity may distaste you, yet as under a bitter and rough rind there lieth a delicate kernel of conceit and sweet invention."--henry peacham, "the compleat gentleman," into this state of things suddenly came the "black death" of - , the most terrible plague that ever raged in christendom. this was at once hailed by moralists as god's long-delayed punishment upon a society rotten to the core. at first the world was startled into seriousness. many of the clergy fought the plague with that self-sacrificing devotion which, in all denominations, a large fraction of the christian clergy has always shown at similar moments. but there is no evidence to show that the priests died in sensibly larger proportions than their flocks; and many contemporary chroniclers expressly record that the sick were commonly deserted even by their spiritual pastors. after the first shock was over, the multitude relapsed into a licence proportionate to their first terror--a reaction described most vividly by boccaccio, but with equal emphasis by other chroniclers. many good men, in their bitter disappointment, complained that the world was grown more careless and irreligious than before the plague; but this can hardly be the verdict of most modern students who look carefully into the mass of surviving evidence. to begin with, the black death dealt a fatal blow to that old vicious system of boy-rectors. half the population perished in the plague, half the livings went suddenly begging; and in the church, as on the farm, labour was at a sudden premium. such curates as survived dropped naturally into the vacant rectories; and, side by side with acts of parliament designed to keep the labourer down to his old wages, we find archi-episcopal decrees against the "unbridled cupidity" of the clergy, who by their pernicious example encouraged this demand of the lower classes for higher wages. the incumbent, who ought to be only too thankful that god has spared his life, takes advantage of the present stress to desert his parish and run after mass-money.[ ] chaplains, again, are "not content with their competent and accustomed salaries," which, as a matter of fact, were sometimes no higher than the wages of a common archer or a farm bailiff. but the economic movement was irresistible; and the registers from this time forward show an extraordinary increase in the number of priests instituted to livings. in the same lists where the priests were formerly only thirty-seven per cent. of the whole, their proportion rises during and after the pestilence to seventy-four per cent. the black death did in one year what the ecumenical council of lyons had conspicuously failed to do, though summoned by a great reforming pope and inspired by such zealous disciplinarians as st. bonaventura and his fellow-franciscan, eudes rigaud of rouen. again, the shock of the pestilence, the complete desertion of so many poor country benefices by the clergy, and the scandal generated by this quarrel over wages between chaplains and their employers, naturally threw the people back very much upon their own religious resources. the lay control over parish finances in th-century england, which, limited as it was, still excites the wonder of modern catholicism, probably dated from this period. men no longer gave much to monks, or even (in comparison with past times) to friars; but they now devoted their main religious energies to beautifying and endowing their own parish churches, which became far larger and more richly furnished in the th century than in the th. moreover, abbot gasquet is probably right in attributing to the black death the rise of a new tone in orthodox religious feeling, which "was characterized by a [more] devotional and more self-reflective cast than previously." there was every probability of such a religious change; all earnest men had seen in the plague the chastening hand of god; and in the end it yielded the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which were exercised thereby. but this bracing process could not possibly, under the circumstances of the time, work entirely on the lines of orthodox conservatism. when we count up the forces that produced wycliffism--the notorious corruption of the papal court, its unpopular french leanings, the vast sums drawn from england by foreign ecclesiastics, the unpopularity of the clergy at home, the growth of the english language and national spirit--among all these causes we must not forget to note that wycliffe and his contemporaries, in their early manhood, had struggled through a year of horrors almost beyond modern conception. they had seen the multitude run wild, first with religious fanaticism and then with blasphemous despair; had watched all this volcanic matter cool rapidly down into dead lava; and were left to count one more abortive reform, and re-echo the old despairing "how long, o lord!" "sad to say, it seemeth to many that we are fallen into those unhappy times wherein the lights of heaven seem to be turned to darkness, and the stars of heaven are fallen upon the earth.... our priests are now become blind, dark, and beclouded ... they are now darker than the laity.... lo, in these days there is neither shaven crown on their head, nor religious decency in their garments, nor modesty in their words, nor temperance in their food, nor shamefastness in their gestures, nor even chastity in their deeds."[ ] such is the cry of an orthodox contemporary of wycliffe's; and words like these explain why wycliffe himself became unorthodox against his will. if he had died at the age of fifty or thereabouts, towards the beginning of chaucer's business career, posterity would have known him only as the most distinguished english philosopher of his time. the part which he played in later life was to a great extent forced upon him by the strong practical sense which underlay his speculative genius. others saw the faults of religion as clearly, and exposed them as unmercifully, as he. but, while they were content to end with a pious "well, god mend all!" wycliffe was one of those in whom such thoughts lead to action: "nay, by god, donald, we must help him to mend it!" no doubt there were errors in his teaching, and much more that was premature; otherwise the authorities could never have managed so nearly to exterminate lollardy. on the other hand, it is equally certain that wycliffe gave a voice to feelings widespread and deeply rooted in the country. orthodox chroniclers record their amazement at the rapid spread of his doctrines. "in those days," says knighton, with picturesque exaggeration, "that sect was held in the greatest honour, and multiplied so that you could scarce meet two men by the way whereof one was not a disciple of wycliffe." walsingham speaks of the london citizens in general as "unbelieving towards god and the traditions of their fathers, supporters of the lollards."[ ] in the wycliffite opinions were openly pleaded before parliament by two privy councillors, a powerful northamptonshire landlord, and the brother of the earl of salisbury; the bishops had to recall richard ii. in hot haste from ireland to deal with this open propaganda of heresy. ten years after chaucer's death, again, a bill was presented by the commons for the wholesale disendowment of bishoprics and greater monasteries, "because of priests and clerks that now have full nigh destroyed all the houses of alms within the realm." the petitioners pleaded that, apart from the enormous gain to the finances of the state, and to a proposed new system of almshouses, it would be a positive advantage to disendow idle and luxurious prelates and monks, "the which life and evil example of them hath been so long vicious that all the common people, both lords and simple commons, be now so vicious and infected through boldship of their sin, that scarce any man dreadeth god nor the devil." the king and the prince of wales, however, would not listen either to this proposal or to those upon which the petitioners afterwards fell back, that criminous clerks should be dealt with by the king's courts, and that the recent act for burning lollards should be repealed.[ ] the lollard movement in the parliament of was led by chaucer's old fellow-ambassador, sir richard stury, the "valiant ancient knight" of froissart's chronicles; and chaucer himself has often been hailed, however falsely, as a wycliffite. the mere fact that he speaks disparagingly of the clergy simply places him side by side with st. bernard, st. bonaventura, and st. catherine of siena, whose language on this subject is sometimes far stronger than his. as a fellow-protégé of john of gaunt, chaucer must often have met wycliffe in that princely household; he sympathized, as so many educated englishmen did, with many of the reformer's opinions; but all the evidence is against his having belonged in any sense to the lollard sect. the testimony of the poet's own writings has been excellently summed up in chap. vi. of professor lounsbury's "studies in chaucer." in early life our hero seems to have accepted as a matter of course the popular religion of his time. his hymn to the virgin even outbids the fervour of its french original; and in the tales of miracles which he versified he has taken no pains to soften down touches which would now be received with scepticism alike by protestants and by the papal commissioners for the revision of the breviary. (tales of the "second nun," "man of law," and "prioress.") even then he was probably among the many who disbelieved in tales of jewish ritual murder, though not sufficiently to deter the artist in him from welcoming the exquisite pathos of the little scholar's death. but his mind was naturally critical; and it was further widened by an acquaintance with many cities and many men. the merchants and scholars of italy were notorious for their free-thinking; and we may see in the unpriestly priest froissart the sceptical habit of mind which was engendered in a th-century "intellectual" by a life spent in courts and among men of the world. it is quite natural, therefore, to find chaucer scoffing openly at several small superstitions, which in many less sceptical minds lived on for centuries--the belief in arthur and lancelot, in fairies, in magic, in virgilian miracles, in pagan oracles and gods, in alchemy, and even in judicial astrology. these last two points, indeed, supply a very close analogy to his religious views. it is difficult to avoid concluding, from his very intimate acquaintance with the details of the pursuit, that he had himself once been bitten with the craze for the philosopher's stone. again, if we only looked at his frequent poetical allusions to judicial astrology, we should be driven to conclude that he was a firm believer in the superstition; but in the prose "astrolabe," one of his latest and most serious writings, he expressly repudiates any such belief. the analogy from this to his expressions on religious subjects is very close. at first sight we might judge him to have accepted to the last, though with growing reserve and waning enthusiasm, the whole contemporary system of doctrines and practices which wycliffe in later life so unreservedly condemned. but one or two passages offer startling proof to the contrary. take the prologue to the "legend of good women"-- a thousand timës have i heard men tell that there is joy in heaven and pain in hell, and i accordë well that it is so. but natheless yet wot i well also that there is none dwelling in this countree that either hath in heaven or hell y-be, he may of it none other wayës witen [know but as he hath heard said or found it written, for by assay there may no man it prove. and, again, the reflections which he adds upon the death of arcite, without the least authority from the original of boccaccio-- his spirit changèd house, and wentë there, as i came never, i can not tell where: therefore i stint, i am no divinister; [stop of soulës find i not in this register, nor list me those opinions to tell of them, though that they writen where they dwell. it is difficult to believe that the man who gratuitously recorded those two personal impressions, without the least excuse of artistic necessity, was a perfectly orthodox catholic. it is more than possible that he would not have accepted in cold blood all the consequences of his words; but we may see plainly in him that sceptical, mocking spirit to which the contemporary sacchetti constantly addresses himself in his sermons. this was indeed one of the most obvious results of the growing unpopularity of the hierarchy, intensified by the shock of the black death. that great crisis had specially stimulated the two religious extremes. churches grew rapidly in size and in splendour of furniture, while great lords built themselves oratories from which they could hear mass without getting out of bed. the pope decreed a new service for a new saint's day, "full of mysteries, stuffed with indulgences," at a time when even reasonable men began to complain that the world had too many. richard ii. presented his holiness with an elaborate "book of the miracles of edward late king of england"--that is, of the weak and vicious edward ii., whose attempted canonization was as much a political job as those of lancaster and arundel, scrope and henry vi.; and this popular canonization ran so wild that men feared lest the crowd of new saintlings should throw christ and his apostles into the shade. on the other side there was the "new theology," which had grown up, with however little justification, from the impulse given by orthodox and enthusiastic friars--pantheistic doctrines, minimizing the reality of sin; denials of eternal punishment; attempts to find a heaven for good pagans and jews.[ ] even in the th century, willingly or unwillingly, the friars had raised similar questions; a minister-general had been scandalized to hear them debating in their schools "whether god existed"; and berthold of ratisbon had felt bound to warn his hearers against the subtle sophism that souls, when once they have been thoroughly calcined, must reach a point at which anything short of hell-fire would feel uncomfortably chilly. this is the state of mind into which chaucer, like so many of his contemporaries, seems to have drifted. he had no reasoned antagonism to the church dogmas as a whole; on the contrary, he was keenly sensible to the beauty of much that was taught. but the humourist in him was no less tickled by many popular absurdities; and he had enough philosophy to enjoy the eternal dispute between free-will and predestination. as a boy, he had knelt unthinkingly; as a broken old man, he was equally ready to bow again before eternal omnipotence, and to weep bitterly for his sins. but, in his years of ripe experience and prosperity and conscious intellectual power, we must think of him neither among the devout haunters of shrines and sanctuaries nor among those who sat more austerely at the feet of wycliffe's poor priests; rather among the rich and powerful folk who scandalized both catholics and lollards by taking god's name in vain among their cups, and whetting their worldly wit on sacred mysteries. we get glimpses of this in many quarters--in the "roman de la rose," for instance, but still more in sacchetti's sermons and the poem of "piers plowman." here the poet complains, after speaking of the "gluttony and great oaths" that were then fashionable-- "but if they carpen of christ, these clerks and these layfolk [discuss at the meat in their mirth, when minstrels be still, then tell they of the trinity a tale or twain and bringen forth a bald reason, and take bernard to witness, and put forth a presumption to prove the sooth. thus they drivel at their dais the deity to know, and gnawen god with the gorge when the gut is full ... i have heard high men eating at the table carpen, as they clerkës were, of christ and his might and laid faults upon the father that formed us all, and carpen against clerkës crabbed words:-- 'why would our saviour suffer such a worm in his bliss that beguiled the woman and the man after, through which wiles and words they wenten to hell, and all their seed for their sin the same death suffered? here lieth your lore,' these lords 'gin dispute. 'of that ye clerks us kenneth of christ by the gospel ... [teach why should we, that now be, for the works of adam rot and be rent? reason would it never ...' such motives they move, these masters in their glory, and maken men to misbelieve that muse much on their words."[ ] [illustration: westminster abbey view from near chaucer's tomb] more unorthodox still were those whom walsingham would have made partly responsible for the horrors of the peasants' revolt. "some traced the cause of these evils to the sins of the great folk, whose faith in god was feigned; for some of them (it is said) believed that there was no god, no sacrament of the altar, no resurrection from the dead, but that as a beast dies so also there is an end of man." there is, of course, no such dogmatic infidelity in chaucer. even if he had felt it, he was too wise to put it in writing; as professor lounsbury justly says of the two passages quoted above, "the wonder is not that they are found so infrequently, but that they are found at all." yet there was also in chaucer a true vein of religious seriousness. "troilus and criseyde" was written not long before the "legend of good women"; and as at the outset of the later poem he goes out of his way to scoff, so at the end of the "troilus" he is at equal pains to make a profession of faith. the last stanza of all, with its invocation to the trinity and to the virgin mary, might be merely conventional; medieval literature can show similar sentiments in very strange contexts, and part of this very stanza is translated from dante. but however chaucer may have loved to let his wit play about sacred subjects "at meat in his mirth when minstrels were still," we can scarcely fail to recognize another side to his mind when we come to the end of those "troilus" stanzas which are due merely to boccaccio, and begin upon the translator's own epilogue-- o youngë freshë folkës, he or she in which ay love up-groweth with your age, repair ye home from worldly vanitee ... "come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for the play is played out." but, though we have nothing of the reformer in our composition; though we are for the most part only too frankly content to take the world as we find it; though, even in their faith, our fellow-christians make us murmur, "lord, what fools these mortals be!" though we most love to write of vanity fair, yet at the bottom of our heart we do desire a better country, and confess sometimes with our mouth that we are strangers and pilgrims on the earth. indeed, if our poet had not been keenly sensible of the beauty of holiness, then the less chaucer he! as it is, he stands the most shakespearian figure in english literature, after shakespeare himself. age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his infinite variety. we venerate him for his years, and he daily startles us with the eternal freshness of his youth. all springtide is here, with its green leaves and singing-birds; aptly we read him stretched at length in the summer shade, yet almost more delightfully in winter, with our feet on the fender; for he smacks of all familiar comforts--old friends, old books, old wine, and even, by a proleptic miracle, old cigars. "here," said dryden, "is god's plenty;" and lowell inscribed the first leaf of his chaucer with that promise which the poet himself set upon the enchanted gate of his "parliament of fowls"-- through me men go into the blissful place of the heart's heal and deadly woundës' cure; through me men go unto the well of grace, where green and lusty may doth ever endure; this is the way to all good aventure; be glad, thou reader, and thy sorrow off-cast, all open am i, pass in, and speed thee fast! index a abjuration of the realm, aldersgate, aldgate, , , , , ff., , ; tower, , all hallows stonechurch, angle, sir guichard de, anne of bohemia, queen, , antwerp, , archery, , , , architecture, arundel, archbishop, " earl, attechapel, bartholomew, b badlesmere, lord, banastre, katherine, becket, st. thomas à, , , , bedfellows, , belknap, chief justice, berkeley, the family of, , , ff., , bishopsgate, black death, black prince, , blanch apleton, blanche, duchess of lancaster, blountesham, richard de, boccaccio, , books, cost of, boughton-under-blee, brembre, sir nicholas, , , , brerelay, richard, bribery, bristol, , buckholt, isabella, bucklersbury, bukton, burley, sir john, burley, sir simon, , burne-jones, c cadzand, caen, ; siege of, , calais, , , cambridge, , , , canterbury, , , , , , , , , chandos, sir john, charing cross mews, charles v. of france, , , " vi. of france, " de blois, chaucer, geoffrey, and aldgate, , ff., ; his aloofness, , ; his birth, , ; and boccaccio, ; and books, ff.; his childhood, ; clerk of love, ; his clerkship of works, ; his comptrollership, ; at court, ; at the custom house, , ; and dante, , ; his death and tomb, ; in debt, , , , ; his debt to dante, ; his family, ; his favour from henry iv., ; his freshness, ; at greenwich, ; his house at westminster, ; his last poems, ; his literary development, ; in london, ; loses clerkship, ; loses comptrollership, ; in love, ; his love of nature, ; and lynn, ; his marriage, ; optimistic, ; origin of name, ; his originality, , ; as page, ; in parliament, ; his pathos, ; and petrarch, , ; his philosophy, ; and piers plowman, ; his raptus, ; and religion, , , ff.; his retractation, ; robbed, ; as royal yeoman, , ; as squire, ; his times, ; his travels, , ff., ; in war, ; his wide experiences, ; his wife's death, ; and wine, ; and women, ; his writings, , , ; and wycliffe, chaucer, elizabeth, " john, , , , , , , , , " lowys, , , " philippa, , , , , , , , , , " richard, " robert malyn le, , " simon, , " thomas, , chaumpaigne, cecilia, , chausier, elizabeth, cheapside, , , , , child-marriages, , , , children beaten, chiltern hills, chimneys, chivalry, decay of, ; golden age of, ; and marriage, ; theory of, church, buildings decayed, ; corruption of, ; talking in, churchman, john, clarence, lionel of, , , , , , clergy, and hunting, , ; in parliament, ; unpopular, , ; youth of, clerical, criminals, ff.; education, ff.; immunity, ff.; influence, decay of, ff.; morality, , , , , , , , , , clerkenwell, comfort, ideal of, , , compostella, , , compurgation, conscription, ff.; and liberty, , , ; and peace, constance, duchess of lancaster, contrasts, cornhill, , , , crécy, , , , , , crime and punishment, cripplegate, , , crusades, decay of, d dancing, dartford, dartmouth, , david, king of scots, dennington, despenser, bishop, " edward, dilapidation, divorce, douglas, sir james, dovecotes, manorial, du guesclin, bertrand, , , e eavesdroppers, edward i., , , , , , , , " ii., , , , " iii., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ff., , , , , , , , ff., , , , , ; bankrupt, ; his character, ; his court, ; his marriage, ; his rhine journey, england, growing wealth of, ; unsettled state, english, commerce, ff.; democratic, ; fickleness of, ; language, ff.; language in chaucer's poems, ; in war, , epping, exeter, , , f fastolf, sir john, , florence, , , , food of the poor, foreigners in england, forrester (forster), richard, , frederick ii., emperor, free-thought, , , ff. french and english nobles, ; language, decay of, ff. friars, , ; and usury, g games, , ff., gascoigne, chief justice, , gaston, count of foix, , , gauger, william le, gaunt, john of, , , , , , , , , , , , , , genoa, , , , giffard, bishop, , gisers, john, glass windows, gloucester, thomas, duke of, , , , gower, john, , , , gravesend, greenwich, , h hampstead, harbledown, hatfield, william of, hawkwood, sir john, , henry ii., " iii., , " iv., , , , , , , " v., , , , " vi., heriot, highgate, hoccleve, , holborn, , , holidays, holland, sir thomas, home life, , , , hornchurch, prior of, hospitals, and bad meat, i infidelity, inns, invasion of england threatened, ipswich, , irreverence, , , , , , ff., , isabella, queen, , , isle of wight, j jean de saintré, , john xxii., pope, john, king of france, , , , , , , justice, ff.; and money, , k kent, john, knighthood, of boys, ; cheapening of, ; decay, ; imperfect, ; and trade, , , knightsbridge, knolles, sir robert, l la rochelle, battle of, lancaster, thomas of, langham, bishop, laws and penalties, lisle, lord, lollardy, popularity of, london, its byelaws, ; citizens' furniture, ; city walls, ; its churches, ; and country, , ; its custom house, ; gardens, ; gate dwellings, ; growth of, ; its houses, , ; and lollardy, ; population of, ; power of, ; sanitation, ; sports, ; its streets, , , ; suburbs, ; view of, ; water, london bridge, , louis, st., , love, and chivalry, ff.; earthly and heavenly, ; in m. a., , ff. ludgate, , lynn, , , , , , m manslaughter, ; and punishment, marriage, ceremonies, ; of children, , , , ; and chivalry ; and the church, ; and irreverence, ; laws lax, ; and love, ; and money, , , ff., . massingham, john, mauny, walter de, may-day, mazelyner, john le, mercenary troops, mercer, merchants, tricks of, merchet, michael, st., aldgate, mile end, militia, ; and liberty, money, power of, , , , , moorfields, , moorgate, morris, william, , mortuary, murder, n nations at universities, nature in the middle ages, neville's cross, , newcastle coal, newgate, , norfolk pilgrimages, northbrooke, bishop, norwich, , , , , , , , o oaths, , , ospringe, oxford, , , , , , , , p paris, , , parliament, growth of, , , ; power of, paston, the family of, peasants' revolt, ff. peckham, archbishop, percy, sir harry, " henry, " sir thomas, perjury, perrers, alice, petrarch, francis, , , pevensey, philippa of hainault, queen, , , , , , , , , , , ; description of, philippe de valois, king of france, , , , , , philpot or philipot, john, , picard, sir henry, , , piers, bishop, pilgrimage, decay of, ff., pillory, pisa, police, poor and rich, ff. poore, bishop, portsmouth, , priests and people, privacy, want of, processions, ; and bloodshed, punishment, corporal, ff.; public, purgation, r ransoms, , , reims, rich and poor, , , ff. richard ii., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , rochester, roet, katherine, rottingdean, rye, s saint mary aldermary, sanctuary, ff. scalby, john, scarborough, schools, scogan, henry, , scrope, archbishop, " stephen, , serfs, sluys, smithfield, , , somere, william, southampton, southwark, , stace, thomas, stapledon, bishop, , stepney, stodey, john de, stratford bread, strikers, clerical, strode, ralph, , stury, sir richard, , , , sudbury, archbishop, , swaffham, john de, swynford, sir thomas, t tavern company, thoresby, archbishop, thorpe, tottenham, tournaments, , ; forbidden, town and country, , trades' unions, travel, dangers of, tyler, wat, , , , , u ulster, countess of, , university, , ; discipline, ff.; and sports, , , upton, john de, " robert de, urban vi., pope, usury, v vintry ward, , violante visconti, w wager of battle, , wages of workmen, walbrook, , walworth, war, conscription and liberty, , , , , , ; the hundred years', ; losses in, ; private, ; ravage of, ff. wardships, , , warham, archbishop, wells, wenceslas, emperor, westhale, joan de, , westminster, , , , , , , , , , , , , winchelsea, , , windsor, , , , , , , , , women, beaten, ; emancipation of, ; life of, ; manners of, , ff. woodstock. see _gloucester_ worcester, , wycliffe, , , , , , , ; and serfage, wykeham, william of, , y york, , printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. footnotes: [ ] see jusserand, "hist. litt.," l. iii., ch. i., and the preface to his "vie nomade"; also chap. xix. of prof. tout's volume in the "political hist. of engd." it is nearly one hundred and fifty years since tyrwhitt showed, by abundant quotations, the stages by which english fought its way to final recognition as the national language. [ ] froissart, ed. luce, i., , . there was in a similar attempt to keep up latin and french among the benedictine monks, since from ignorance of one or the other language "they frequently fall into shame." reynerus, "de antiq. benedict," p. . [ ] "he chalenged in englyssh tunge" ("chronicles of london," ed. kingsford, p. , where the exact form of words used by henry is recorded; cf. dymock's challenge, ibid., p. ). [ ] it is difficult to go altogether with prof. skeat in his repudiation of the sense commonly attached to this phrase (note on prologue, i., ). chaucer seems to say that the prioress (_a_) knew french, but (_b_) only french of stratford, just as he explains that the parish clerk (_a_) could dance, but (_b_) only after the school of oxenford. for this oxford dancing, see dr. rashdall's "universities of europe," ii., . [ ] for the most interesting account of this fusion, see jusserand, "hist. litt.," p. . (bk. iii., ch. i.) [ ] "english garner," th century, ed. a. w. pollard, p. ; j. r. green's "short history," p. . "and one of them named sheffield, a mercer, came into a house and asked for meat, and especially he asked after eggs; and the goodwife answered that she could speak no french, and the merchant was angry, for he also could speak no french, but would have had eggs, and she understood him not. and then at last another said, that he would have 'eyren'; then the goodwife said that she understood him well. lo, what should a man in these days now write, eggs or eyren?" [ ] see the cases given in full by thorold rogers, "oxford city documents," pp. , , , and h. rashdall's "universities of europe," ii., , , . [ ] see the articles by prof. maitland and mr. a. l. smith in vol. ii. of "social england." [ ] cf. reynerus, "de antiq. benedict," pp. , , _ _, _ _, . the pages in italics contain startling lists of defaulting abbeys and priories. [ ] see gower's "vox clamantis," bk. iii., c. , for a description of the worldly aims of the th-century universities. [ ] it seems extremely probable, to say the least, that the poem of piers plowman was by more than one hand; but, in any case, the authors were contemporaries, and seem to have held very much the same views; so that it is still possible for most purposes of historical argument to quote the poem under the traditional name of langland. [ ] bartholomæus anglicus (steele, "mediæval lore," ), p. . [ ] besant quotes accounts recording (_inter alia_) a gift of wine to the "chaucer" on the occasion of a mayoral procession, but apparently without realizing its significance. ("mediæval london," i., .) [ ] mr. v. b. redstone, in _athenæum_, no. , p. , and _east anglian daily times_, april , , p. , col. . it is not my aim, in this chapter, to trouble the reader with discussions of doubtful points, but rather to present what is certainly known, or may safely be inferred about chaucer's life. [ ] at wycombe, too, "every citizen from twelve years old could serve on juries for the town business." mrs. green, "town life," i., . i shall have occasion in the next chapter to note how early men began life in those days. [ ] pauli, "pictures of old england," chap. v. [ ] "life records," iv., . the industry of mr. walter rye has collected a large number of documentary notices which establish a probable connection of some kind between chaucer and norfolk; but the evidence seems insufficient as yet to prove mr. rye's thesis that the poet was born at lynn; and in default of such definite evidence, it is safer to presume that he was born in the thames street house. (_athenæum_, march , ; cf. "life records," iii., .) [ ] at rouen, caudebec, and gisors, for instance, are very exact counterparts of the walbrook, except that the overhanging houses are a century or two later, and proportionately larger. [ ] the illustration on page represents a similar royal banquet--the celebrated peacock feast of lynn. robert braunche, mayor, entertained edward there _circa_ , and caused the event to be immortalized on his funeral monument. henry picard himself was king's butler at lynn in (rye, _l. c._). [ ] fitzstephen, in stow, p. . [ ] see "the hanseatic steelyard," in pauli's "pictures," chap. vi. [ ] "oeuvres," ed. buchon, vol. iii., pp. ff.; cf. lydgate's account of his own schooldays, in "babees book," e.e.t.s., p. xliii. [ ] prof. hales, in "dict. nat. biog." [ ] see the queen's vow before the outbreak of the hundred years' war, in wright's "political poems," r.s., p. . "alors dit la reine: 'je sais bien que piecha [il y a longtemps que suis grosse d'enfant, que mon corps sentit la, encore n'a t-il guère qu'en mon corps se tourna; et je voue et promets à dieu qui me créa.... que jamais fruit de moi de mon corps n'istera, [sortira si m'en aurez menée au pays par delà.'" [ ] "p. plowman," b., x., , and xi., . [ ] "chronicles of london," ed. kingsford, p. . [ ] these sums should be multiplied by about fifteen to bring them into terms of modern currency. [ ] the poet's grandmother was married at least thrice. did he find hints for the "wife of bath" in his own family? [ ] quoted by dr. furnivall on p. xv. of his introduction to "manners and meals" (e.e.t.s., ). [ ] this tunic would, no doubt, be a cote-hardie, or close-fitting bodice and flowing skirt in one line from neck to feet; it may be seen, buttons and all, on the statuette of edward iii.'s eldest daughter which adorns his tomb in westminster abbey. [ ] "la chevalerie," nouvelle edition, pp. , ff. [ ] see the author's "from st. francis to dante," nd ed., pp. ff. [ ] that tales like these were read before ladies appears even from bédier's judicial remarks in petit de juleville's "hist. litt.," vol. ii., p. ; and i have shown elsewhere that these represent rather less than the facts. ("from st. francis to dante," nd ed., pp. , .) for girls' behaviour, see t. wright's "womankind in western europe," pp. , ; "le livre du chevalier de la tour," chap. ff.; or "la tour landry," e.e.t.s., pp. , ff. [ ] "house of fame," bk. ii., l. ; "troilus," bk. iii., l. ; prof. hales, in "dict. nat. biog." [ ] "life records," iv., doc. no. . [ ] "dole," "ration." [ ] "mess of great meat," _i.e._ from one of the staple dishes, excluding such special dishes as would naturally be reserved for the king or his guests. [ ] the legal tariff in the city of london at this time for shoes of cordwain (cordova morocco) was _d._, and for boots _s._ _d._ cowhide shoes were fixed at _d._, and boots at _s._ riley, "liber albus," p. xc. [ ] this was exactly the commons of a chaplain of the king's chapel ("life records," ii., ). the dean of the chapel was dignified with "two darres of bread, one pitcher of wine, two messes de grosse from the kitchen, and one mess of roast." some of this, no doubt, would go to his servant. all the king's household, from the high steward downwards (who might be a knight banneret), were allowed these messes from the kitchen as well as their dinners in hall. [ ] "this same year [ ] the king held royally st. george feast at windsor, there being king john of france, the which king john said in scorn that he never saw so royal a feast, and so costly, made with tallies of tree, without paying of gold and silver" ("chronicles of london," ed. , p. ). queen philippa received for this tournament a dress allowance of £ modern money (nicolas, "order of the garter," p. ). [ ] froissart, ed. luce, vol. v., p. , ff. walsingham ("hist. ang.," an. ) bears equally emphatic testimony to the good natural feeling existing between the english and french gentry. [ ] "knight of la tour-landry," e.e.t.s., p. (written in - ). [ ] eustache deschamps, whose life and writings often throw so much light on chaucer's, shows us the difficulties of married men at court, and says outright-- "dix et sept ans ai au satan servi au monde aussi et à la chair pourrie, oublié dieu, et mon corps asservi a cette cour, de tout vice nourrie." (sarradin, "eustache deschamps," pp. ff., , .) [ ] quoted by nicolas from rymer's "foedera" new ed., iii., . [ ] e.e.t.s., "stacions of rome," etc., p. . (the whole english poem describes a journey to spain; but as yet the pilgrims are not out of the channel.) [ ] froissart (globe ed.), pp. , ; "eulog. hist.," iii., , . [ ] dante, "purg.," iii., . [ ] sarradin, "deschamps," pp. , . [ ] "hist. of eng. lit.," vol. ii., p. , trans. w. c. robinson. [ ] "cant. tales," g., ff. it will be noted how ill the phrase "son of eve" suits the nun's mouth. in this, as in other cases, chaucer simply worked one of his earlier poems into the framework of the "canterbury tales." [ ] see a correspondence in the _athenæum_, sept. to nov. , (mr. c. h. bromby and mr. st. clair baddeley), and mr. f. j. mather's two articles in "modern language notes" (baltimore), vol. xi., p. , and vol. xii., p. . [ ] see dr. koch's paper in "chaucer society essays," pt. iv. [ ] froissart's great poem of méliador thus became anonymous for nearly five centuries, and was only identified by the most romantic chance in our own generation.--darmesteter, "froissart," chap. xiii. [ ] _athenæum_, as above. [ ] froissart, ed. buchon, i. , ; darmesteter, p. . [ ] c. l. kingsford, "chronicles of london," p. . [ ] chaucer soc., "life records," iv., p. xxx. [ ] "eulog. hist.," iii., : statutes of parliament, ric. ii., an. , c. . the preamble complains that such "malefactors and raptors of women grow more violent, and are in these days more rife than ever in almost every part of the kingdom," and it implies that married women were sometimes so carried off. cf. jusserand, "vie nomade," p. , and "piers plowman," b. iv., -- "then came peace into parliament, and put forth a bill, how wrong against his will had his wife taken, and how he ravished rose, reginald's love," etc., etc. [ ] "life records," iv., p. xxxv. [ ] riley, "memorials," pp. , . [ ] oman, "england, - ," p. . [ ] "eulog. hist.," iii. . [ ] ibid., . [ ] that is, they contributed to maintain the minster, and were admitted to a share of the spiritual benefits earned by "all prayers, fastings, pilgrimages, almsdeeds, and works of mercy" connected therewith. edward iii., and at least three of his sons, were already of the fraternity of lincoln, and richard ii., with his queen, were admitted the year after philippa chaucer. [ ] riley, "memorials," pp. , , . the masons' regulations given on p. of the same book are interesting in connection with chaucer's work; but still more so are the documents in "york fabric rolls" (surtees soc.), pp. , . [ ] "life records," iv. , . [ ] a well-to-do youth could be boarded at oxford for _s._ a week, and it was reckoned that the whole expenses of a doctor of divinity could be defrayed for thrice that sum, or half chaucer's salary. (riley, "memorials," p. ; reynerus, "de antiq. benedict," pp. , .) [ ] a. . "lo grenewych, ther many a shrewe is inne." [ ] "little lowys my son, i aperceive well by certain evidences thine ability to learn sciences touching numbers and proportions; and as well consider i thy busy prayer in special to learn the treatise of the astrelabie." excusing himself for having omitted some problems ordinarily found in such treatises, chaucer says, "some of them be too hard to thy tender age of x. year to conceive." [ ] "life records," iv., nos. , , . the great significance of this fact is obscured even by such excellent authorities as prof. skeat, prof. hales, and mr. pollard, who all follow sir harris nicolas in misinterpreting the last of these three documents. chaucer had not lost, as they represent, henry's own letters patent of only five days before, but richard's patents for the yearly £ and the tun of wine. it is quite possible that chaucer may have been obliged to leave them in pledge somewhere, or that they were momentarily mislaid; but it is natural to suspect that the poet would not so lightly have reported them as lost unless it had been to his obvious interest to do so. we must remember the trouble and expense constantly taken by public bodies, for instance, to get their charters ratified by a new king. [ ] globe ed., p. ; buchon, iii., . [ ] "complaint to his purse," last stanza. [ ] "life records," iv., p. xlv. in or chaucer received £ from the clerk of henry's great wardrobe, to be paid into henry's hands. [ ] though the subject-matter of this poem is mainly taken from boethius, yet it evidently has the translator's hearty approval, and is in tune with many more of his later verses. [ ] michelet, "hist. de france," liv. vi., _ad fin._ a cardinal explained the extreme violence of urban vi.'s words and actions by the report "that he could not avoid one of two things, lunacy or total collapse; for he never ceased drinking, yet ate nothing." baluze, "vit. pap. aven.," vol. i., col. . compare walsingham's tone with regard to the pope, "hist. angl.," an. . [ ] chaucer's religious belief will be more fully discussed in chapter xxiv. [ ] w. r. lethaby, "westminster abbey," , p. . [ ] stow (routledge, , p. ) seems to imply that the poet was first buried in the cloister, but this is an obvious error. dr. furnivall has pointed out a line of hoccleve's which certainly seems to imply that the younger poet was present at his master chaucer's death-bed. we may also gather from hoccleve's account of his own youth many glimpses which tend to throw interesting sidelights on that of chaucer (hoccleve's works, e.e.t.s., vol. i., pp. xii., xxxi.). [ ] this was occasionally the case even in normandy until the english invasion. the great city of caen, for instance, was still unwalled in . ("froissart," ed. buchon, p. .) a piece of london wall may still be found near the tower at the bottom of a small passage called trinity place, leading out of trinity square. it rises about twenty-five feet from the present ground-level. [ ] riley, "memorials," p. . this was in . [ ] see pp. , , , , , , , , , , . my frequent references to this book will be simply to the name of riley. [ ] ed. morley, pp. - . [ ] riley, p. . [ ] from his first italian journey chaucer returned on may , ; but his second was during the summer and early autumn of . (may to sept. .) [ ] "cant. tales," prol. i., . [ ] walsingham, "hist. angl.," an. , _ad fin._ [ ] "p. plowman," b. prol., . the french words in italics were the first line of a popular song. gower has an equally picturesque description in his "mirour de l'omme," , ff. [ ] "london was, in very truth, a city of palaces. there were, in london itself, more palaces than in venice and florence and verona and genoa all together." "medieval london," i., , where the context shows that the author refers not only to royal residences, but still more to noblemen's houses. [ ] this was at least the theoretical provision of the regulation of , known as fitz alwyne's assize, which is fully summarized and annotated in the "liber albus," ed. riley (r.s.), pp. xxx. ff. we know, however, that similar decrees against roofs of thatch or wooden shingles were not always obeyed. [ ] "menagier de paris," i., ; addy, "evolution of english house," p. ; cf. "piers plowman's creed," i., . [ ] an earthen wall is mentioned in riley, p. . the slight structure of the ordinary house appears from the fact that the rioters of tore so many down, and that the great storm of unroofed them wholesale. (walsingham, an. , and riley, p. .) compare the hook with wooden handle and two ropes which was kept in each ward for the pulling down of burning houses. ("liber albus," p. xxxiv.) [ ] cooper, "annals of cambridge," an. ; rashdall, "universities of europe," ii., . cf. the "common nightwalkers" and "roarers" in riley, pp. ff. [ ] riley, p. . see the specifications for some three-storied houses of a century later quoted by besant. "medieval london," i., . the furs here specified may well have come to £ or £ more (see rogers, "agriculture and prices," pp. ff.). the fur for an oxford warden's gown varied from _s._ _d._ to _s._ [ ] besant, _loc. cit._, i., , mistakenly calls hugh a "craftsman," and gives from his imagination a quite untrustworthy description of the inquest, the house, and the shop. he had evidently not seen the supplementary notice in sharpe's "letter book," f. [ ] riley, p. ; cf. sharpe, "letter books," f, pp. , . a list of furniture left by a richer citizen, apparently incomplete, is given in riley, p. , and another on p. , but this is difficult to separate with certainty from his stock-in-trade. the inventory of a well-to-do norman peasant-farmer is given by s. luce, "du guesclin," p. . here the strictly domestic items are only "four frying-pans, two metal pots, four chests, three caskets, two feather-beds, three tables, a bedstead, an iron shovel, a gridiron, a [trough?], and a lantern." this was in . [ ] addy, "evolution of english house," pp. ff. "a chamber with a chimney" was the acme of medieval comfort. "p. plowman," b., x., p. , and "crede," . [ ] "oeuvres," ed. buchon, p. . a century later, thomas elwood's memoirs show that an english squire's family needed their warm caps as much indoors as outside. [ ] cf. the affair in the hall of wolsingham rectory in . raine, "auckland castle," p. . [ ] a. f. leach, "english schools before the reformation," p. ; "dame alice kyteler" (camden soc.), introd., p. xxxix. the choir-boys, it may be noted in passing, had only half an hour of playtime daily. [ ] it is interesting to note that, when chaucer was clerk of the works to richard ii., he superintended the erection of scaffolds for the king and queen on the occasion of one of these smithfield tournaments. [ ] "french chron. of london" (camden soc.), p. ; cf. walsingham, an. . [ ] "c. t.," b., . [ ] "chronicles of london," ed. kingsford, p. . [ ] walsingham, an. . [ ] "c. t.," b., . [ ] "eulog. hist.," iii., . [ ] walsingham, an. ; riley, p. . [ ] "p. plowman," c., vii., ff. for clarice and peronel, see prof. skeat's notes, _ad loc._, and cf. riley, pp. , , and note . [ ] newgate, ludgate, and cripplegate were regular prisons at this time; but besant is quite mistaken in saying that all gate-leases provide "that they may be taken over as prisons if they are wanted" ("medieval london," i., ). a cripplegate lease (riley, p. ) has naturally such a provision; the others are silent or (like chaucer's) definitely promise the contrary. [ ] p. ; cf. "life records," iv., xxxiv. michaelmas day fell in on a saturday. [ ] bk. ii., lines ff. [ ] darmesteter, "froissart," p. . [ ] riley, pp. , , ; cf. mr. w. hudson's "parish of st. peter permountergate" (norwich, ), pp. , , . [ ] cf. the present writer's "from st. francis to dante," nd ed., pp. , , , , where proof is adduced from episcopal registers that even large and rich monasteries had often no scriptorium, and many monks could not write their own names. [ ] "town life," ii., . [ ] riley, p. . cf. the similar complaint of a poet against blacksmiths in "reliquiæ antiquæ," i., . [ ] nominally, the great gate was shut at the hour of sunset, and only the wicket-gate left open till curfew; but regulations of this kind were generally interpreted with a good deal of laxity. [ ] busch, "lib. ref.," p. ; gilleberti abbatis, "tract. ascet.," vii., ii., § . [ ] see oskar dolch, "the love of nature in early english poetry;" dresden, . [ ] "purg.," xxvi., ; viii., ; iii., ; cf. xvii., , . [ ] "legend of good women," prol., ff. [ ] "survey," ed. morley, , p. . [ ] "monsieur le curé, ... ne dansons pas; mais permettons à ces pauvres gens de danser. pourquoi les empêcher d'oublier un moment qu'ils sont malheureux?" [ ] riley, . i have dealt fully with this subject in my "medieval studies," nos. and . [ ] "babees book," e.e.t.s., p. ; "ménagier de paris," i., ; "c. t.," c., . [ ] sharpe's "letter book" g., pp. , ; riley, pp. , , , , . in the country, "hocking" was often resorted to for raising church funds. see sir john phear's "molland accounts" (devonshire assn., ), pp. ff. [ ] cf. "c. t.," e., ; f., ; "parl. foules," . for his personal love of trees, etc., see "c. t.," a., ; "parl. foules," , , . [ ] cf. riley, pp. , , , , , , . [ ] "herbarium," green and shady spot. [ ] riley, , and _passim_. [ ] "aetas prima," l. ff. [ ] loftie, p. . [ ] "letter book," g., pp. iii. ff., where there is a very interesting case of a florentine merchant. [ ] it is easy to understand how jews themselves came back to england under the guise of lombards. we know enough, from many other sources, of the evils which followed from the inconsistent efforts to outlaw all takers of interest, to appreciate the truth which underlay the obvious exaggerations of the commons in their petition to the king in . "there are in our land a very great multitude of lombards, both brokers and merchants, who serve no purpose but that of ill-doing: moreover, several of those which pass for lombards are jews and saracens and privy spies; and of late they have brought into our land a most grievous vice which it beseems us not to name" ("rot. parl.," vol. ii., p. , § ). [ ] benvenuto da imola, "comentum," vol. i., p. ; etienne de bourbon, p. ; nicole bozon, pp. , ; "piers plowman," b., iii., ; cf. gower, "mirour," . [ ] "mirour," ff., ff., . mr. macaulay remarks that gower seems to deal more tenderly with his own merchant-class than with other classes of society; but his blame, even with this allowance, is severe. [ ] "mirour," . the emphasis which he lays on carpets and curtains shows how great a luxury they were then considered. [ ] "in justice, however, to these centuries, it must be remarked, that they received the institutions of frankpledge as an inheritance from saxon times" (riley). [ ] "to these writs return was made [in ] to the effect that the civic authorities had given orders for butchers to carry the entrails of slaughtered beasts to the flete and there clean them in the tidal waters of the thames, instead of throwing them on the pavement by the house of the grey friars." again: "although this order [of ] was carried out and the bridge destroyed, butchers continued to carry offal from the shambles to the riverside; and this nuisance had to be suppressed in ." but the whole passage should be read in full. [ ] vol. i., cxxxviii. ff. and ff. [ ] mrs. green, "town life," ii., . [ ] between and , for instance, there are only cases of pillory in all. [ ] it is pertinent to note in this connection the medieval custom of giving condemned meat to hospitals. mr. wheatley ("london," p. ) quotes from a scottish act of parliament in , "gif ony man brings to the market corrupt swine or salmond to be sauld, they sall be taken by the bailie, and incontinent, without ony question, sall be sent to the leper folke; and, gif there be na lepper folke, they sall be destroyed all utterlie." at oxford in the th century, there was a similar regulation providing that putrid or unfit meat and fish should be sent to st. john's hospital. ("munimenta academica" (r.s.), pp. , ). here is a probable clue to the tradition that medieval apprentices struck against salmon more than twice a week. see _athenæum_, august and september , . [ ] besant insists very justly on the blood-kinship between the leading citizens and the country gentry. ("medieval london," i., ff.) he shows that a very large majority of mayors, aldermen, etc., were country-born, and of good family. [ ] michelet, "hist. de france," l. i., ch. i. [ ] john philpot, it may be noted, was at this very time one of the collectors of customs under chaucer's comptrollership. [ ] "c. t.," e., . [ ] the violent scenes of the years - are summarized in wheatley's "london" (medieval towns), pp. - . among the victims of an unsuccessful cause were even sir william walworth and sir john philpot. [ ] walsingham, an. ; "eulog. hist.," iii., . [ ] ed. luce, vol. i., pp. , , . [ ] cf. mrs. green, _loc. cit._, ii., . "in a glover from leighton buzzard travelled with his wares to aylesbury for the market before christmas day. it happened that an aylesbury miller, richard boose, finding that his mill needed repairs, sent a couple of servants to dig clay 'called ramming clay' for him on the highway, and was in no way dismayed because the digging of this clay made a great pit in the middle of the road ten feet wide, eight feet broad, and eight feet deep, which was quickly filled with water by the winter rains. but the unhappy glover, making his way from the town in the dusk, with his horse laden with panniers full of gloves, straightway fell into the pit, and man and horse were drowned. the miller was charged with his death, but was acquitted by the court on the ground that he had had no malicious intent, and had only dug the pit to repair his mill, and because he really did not know of any other place to get the kind of clay he wanted save the highroad." [ ] etienne de bourbon, p. . [ ] t. wright, "homes of other days," pp. ff., whence i borrow the accompanying illustration from a ms. of the th century, representing the outside and inside of an inn. incidentally, it illustrates also the common medieval phrase "naked in bed." mrs. green ("town life," ii., ) quotes the grateful entry of a citizen in his public accounts "paid for our bed there (and it was well worth it, witness, a featherbed) _d._" [ ] there were _seventy_ places of pilgrimage in norfolk alone (cutts, "middle ages," p. ). for churches as trysting-places for lovers or gossips we have evidence on many sides, _e.g._ the lovers of the "decameron" (prologue and epilogue), and the custom of "paul's walk" which lasted long after the reformation. [ ] berthold v. regensburg, "predigten," ed. pfeiffer, i., , , ; et. de bourbon, p. ; "piers plowman," b., v., , c., v., ; wharton, "anglia sacra," i., , . [ ] "wyclif's works," ed. arnold, i., ; cf. other quotations in lechler; "wiclif," section x., notes , ; jusserand, "vie nomade," p. ; foxe (parker soc.), vol. iii., p. . [ ] chaucer himself tells us the day in the "man of lawe's prologue"; prof. skeat has accumulated highly probable evidence for the year (vol. iii., p. , and vol. v., p. ). [ ] about feet from the ground, according to hollar, but more probably a little short of feet. (h. b. wheatley, "london," p. .) it must be remembered also how high the cathedral site rises above the river. [ ] bern. ep. ; cf. "liber guillelmi majoris," p. . [ ] skeat, v., p. . "in the subsidy rolls ( - ) for southwark, occurs the entry 'henri bayliff, ostyler ... _s._' in the parliament held at westminster ( - ) henry bailly was one of the representatives for that borough, and again, in the parliament at gloucester, , rich. ii., the name occurs." [ ] the too strict avoidance of oaths had long been authoritatively noted as suggesting a presumption of heresy; here (as in so many other places) chaucer admirably illustrates formal and official documents. [ ] about £ in modern money. [ ] "its unsuitableness to the clerk has often been noticed," writes mr. pollard; but surely those who find fault here have forgotten the obvious truth voiced by the wife of bath, "for trust ye well, it is impossible that any clerk will speakë good of wives." [ ] this highly dramatic addition of the canon and his yeoman is probably an afterthought of chaucer's, who had very likely himself suffered at the hands of some such impostor. [ ] there is, as prof. skeat points out, an inconsistency here in the text. we can see from group h., l. that chaucer had at one time meant the manciple's tale to be told in the morning; yet now when it is ended he tells us plainly that it is four in the afternoon (group i., ). [ ] an allusion to the alliterative verse popular among the common folk, like that of "piers plowman." [ ] it was mostly destroyed by fire in . most writers on canterbury, misled by the ancient spelling, call the inn "chequers of the hope." _hope_, as prof. skeat has long ago pointed out, is simply _hoop_, a part of the inn sign. cf. riley, "memorials of london," pp. , ; and "hist. mss. commission," report v., pt. i., p. . [ ] mrs. green, "town life," ii., . [ ] a. murimuth, ed. hog., p. . [ ] walsingham, an. ; hoccleve, e.e.t.s., vol. iii., p. . [ ] ed. buchon, i., ; ed. luce, iv., . [ ] longman, "edward iii.," i., , . [ ] longman, "edward iii.," vol. i., pp. , , . [ ] ed. buchon, i., , ; ed. luce, i., - . [ ] cf. darmesteter, "froissart," p. , and froissart, ed. buchon, p. . "the good queen philippa was in my youth my queen and sovereign. i was five years at the court of the king and queen of england. in my youth i was her clerk, serving her with fair ditties and treatises of love; and, for the love of the noble and worthy lady my mistress, all other great lords--king, dukes, earls, barons and knights, of whatsoever country they might be--loved me and saw me gladly and gave me much profit." [ ] i cannot refrain here from calling attention to the extraordinary historical value of the eight volumes of exeter registers published by prebendary hingeston-randolph, who in this department has done more for historical students, during the last twenty-five years, than all the learned societies of the kingdom put together. [ ] ed. , p. . the text of this book is frequently corrupt; but the evident sense of these ungrammatical lines - is that the envoys were allowed to watch the unsuspecting damsels from some hidden coign of vantage. it will be noted that hardyng speaks of _five_ daughters; there had been five, but the eldest was now dead. [ ] ed. , p. . she was katherine, daughter to sir adam banastre. miss strickland asserts that the queen, contrary to the custom of medieval ladies in high life, nursed the infant herself. she gives no reference, and her authority is possibly joshua barnes's "life of edward iii." ( ), p. , where, however, references are again withheld. the black prince was born june , , when the king would have been and the queen just on years old according to froissart; but edward was in fact only , and bishop stapledon's reckoning would make the queen about the same age. [ ] throughout this chapter i multiply the ancient money by fifteen, to bring it to modern value. [ ] such acts of vandalism were far more common in the middle ages than is generally imagined; a good many instances are noted in the index of my "from st. francis to dante." [ ] devon, "issues of the exchequer," pp. , , , ; "york fabric rolls," p. ; cf. . it was one of the privileges of the archbishops of york to crown the queen. for the mortuary system, see my "priests and people in medieval england." (simpkins. _s._) [ ] clough, "bothie of tober-na-vuolich." [ ] "mon. germ. scriptt.," xxxii., . [ ] "mirour," ff. [ ] lénient, "satire en france" ( ), p. . [ ] sacchetti, "novelle," cliii.; ste-palaye, "chevalerie," ii., . [ ] mr. rye (_l. c._) points out how frequent was the interchange between london and lynn. another colleague of john chaucer's, john de stodey, mayor and sheriff of london, had been formerly a taverner at lynn. [ ] "mirour," : cf. "piers plowman," c., vii., . readers of chaucer's "prologue" will remember this mysterious word "chevisance" in connection with the merchant. its proper meaning was simply _bargain_: the slang sense will be best understood from a royal ordinance of against those who lived by usury; "which kind of contract, the more subtly to deceive the people, they call _exchange_, or _chevisance_." [ ] "vie nomade," pp. , . [ ] these were, of course, fines for breaches of the assize of ale, as in the norwich cases already mentioned. [ ] in his total income was £ , out of which he saved £ . in the two other years given by smyth he saved £ and £ . some knights even made a living by pot-hunting at tournaments. see ch.-v. langlois, "la vie en france au m. a.," , p. . [ ] cf. a similar instance in riley, p. . [ ] the shillingford letters show us the bishop and canons of exeter selling wine in the same way at their own houses (p. ). [ ] oman, "art of war in the middle ages," ff. [ ] buchon, i., , ; globe, . [ ] "mirour," . cf. the corresponding passage in the "vox clamantis," bk. vi. according to hoccleve, "law is nye flemëd [= banished] out of this cuntre;" it is a web which catches the small flys and gnats, but lets the great flies go (_works_, e.e.t.s., iii., ff.). [ ] walsingham, an. . the evil repute of jurors is fully explained by gower, "mirour," . according to him, perjury had become almost a recognized profession. [ ] gautier, _loc. cit._, p. . [ ] lyndwood, "provinciale," ed. oxon., p. . [ ] "piers plowman," b., xv., , and xx., . [ ] pollock and maitland, "history of english law," vol. i., p. ; lyndwood, "provinciale," pp. ff. it is the more necessary to insist on this, because of a serious error, based on a misreading of bishop quivil's injunctions. the bishop does, indeed, proclaim his right and duty of _punishing_ the parties to a clandestine marriage; but, so far from flying in the face of canon law by threatening to _dissolve_ the contract, he expressly admits, in the same breath, its binding force.--wilkins, ii., . [ ] wilkins, "concilia," i., . [ ] froissart, buchon, iii., , . [ ] "piers plowman," c., xi., . gower speaks still more strongly, if possible, "mirour," ff. chaucer's friend hoccleve makes the same complaint (e.e.t.s., vol. iii., p. ), and these practices outlasted the reformation. the curious reader should consult dr. furnivall's "child marriages and divorces" (e.e.t.s., ). [ ] "adam of usk," p. ; cf. "eulog. hist.," iii., (where the price is given as , marks), and , where the negotiations for another royal marriage are described with equally brutal frankness. [ ] froissart, buchon, ii., . [ ] "paston letters," , introd., p. clxxvi.; cf. for example, thorold rogers' "hist. of ag. and prices," ii., . "megge, the daughter of john, son of utting," pays only _s._ for her marriage; but "alice's daughter" pays _s._ _d._; and so on to "will, the son of john," and "roger, the reeve," who each pay _s._ that is, it was possible for the lord of the manor to squeeze £ in modern money out of a single peasant marriage. [ ] sarradin, "deschamps," p. . [ ] riley, p. . it must, however, be remembered that the ordinary rate of interest then was twenty per cent. thus robert de brynkeleye receives the wardship of thomas atte boure, who had a patrimony of £ ( th-century standard). with this robert trades, paying his twenty per cent. for the use of it, so that he has to account for £ at the heir's majority. of this he takes £ for keep and out-of-pocket expenses, and £ for his trouble, so that the ward receives £ . the royal household ordinances of edward ii.'s reign provide for the maintenance of wards until "they have their lands, or the king have given _or sold_ them."--"life records," ii., p. . [ ] ste-palaye, _loc. cit._, i., ff.; ii., . this rule of age, like all others, had, however, been broken from the first. as early as , geoffrey of anjou knighted his nephew fulk at the age of ; and such incidents are common in epics. princes of the blood were knighted in their cradles. [ ] walsingham, ann. , ; "eulog. hist.," iii., , . the woman avoided the battle only by withdrawing her accusation. [ ] gower, "mirour," . [ ] "prediche volgari," ii., , and iii., . [ ] i quote from the th-century english translation published by the e.e.t.s. (pp. , , ; cf. , ; the square bracket is transferred from p. ). between and there were at least eight editions printed in french, english, and german. [ ] rashdall, "universities of europe," ii., . [ ] pp. , , , , , , , , and _passim_. [ ] "most of the girls in our 'chansons de geste' are represented by our poets as horrible little monsters, ... shameless, worse than impudent, caring little whether the whole world watches them, and obeying at all hazards the mere brutality of their instincts. their forwardness is not only beyond all conception, but contrary to all probability and all sincere observation of human nature." gautier, _l. c._, p. . [ ] there is a very interesting essay on "chaucer's love poetry" in the _cornhill_, vol. xxxv., p. . it is, however, a good deal spoiled by the author's inclusion of many works once attributed to the poet, but now known to be spurious. [ ] bk. iv., ll. , , , , , . [ ] "paston letters" (ed. gairdner, ), ii., ; iv., ccxc. [ ] few tales illustrate more clearly the woman's duty of accepting any knight who made himself sufficiently miserable about her, than that of boccaccio, which dryden has so finely versified under the name of theodore and honoria. equally significant is one of the "gesta romanorum" (ed. swan., no. xxviii.). [ ] quoted by s. luce, "bertrand du guesclin," , p. . [ ] the essentially compulsory foundation of edward iii.'s armies, for at least a great part of his reign, seems to have been overlooked even by prof. oman in his valuable "art of war in the middle ages." [ ] froissart, ed. luce, i., . it was at this time that edward also proclaimed the duty of teaching french for military purposes, as noted in chap. i. of this book. [ ] "norwich militia in the th century" (norfolk and norwich arch. soc.), vol. xiv., p. . [ ] knighton (r.s.), ii., , , . [ ] the scots themselves had found out long before this who were their most formidable enemies. sir james douglas had been accustomed to cut off the right hand or put out the right eye of any archer whom he could catch. [ ] compare the interesting case in gross, "office of coroner," p. . two conscripts, on their way to join the army, chanced to meet at cold ashby the constable who was responsible for their being selected; they ran him through with a lance and then took sanctuary. it is significant that they were not hanged, but carried off to the army; the king needed every stout arm he could muster. [ ] tournaments not infrequently gave rise to treacherous murders and vendettas, as in the case of sir walter mauny's father (froissart, buchon., i., ). compare also the scandal caused by the women who used to attend them in men's clothes (knighton, ii., p. ). luce, however, very much overstates the royal objections to jousts (pp. , ). he evidently fails to realize what a large number of authorized tourneys were held by edward iii. [ ] froissart, globe, - . [ ] denifle, "la désolation des eglises," etc., vol. i., pp. , , . two pages from english chroniclers are almost as bad as any of the iniquities printed in father denifle's book, viz. the sack of winchelsea (knighton, ii., ) and sir john arundel's shipload of nuns from southampton (walsingham, an. ; told briefly in "social england," illd. ed., vol. ii. p. ). [ ] cf. knighton, ii., . [ ] green, "town life," i., . "at the close of the th century a certain knight, baldwin of radington, with the help of john of stanley, raised eight hundred fighting men 'to destroy and hurt the commons of chester'; and these stalwart warriors broke into the abbey, seized the wine, and dashed the furniture in pieces, and when the mayor and sheriff came to the rescue nearly killed the sheriff. when in the archbishop of york determined to fight for his privileges in ripon fair, he engaged two hundred men-at-arms from scotland and the marches at sixpence or a shilling a day, while a yorkshire gentleman, sir john plumpton, gathered seven hundred men; and at the battle that ensued, more than a thousand arrows were discharged by them." [ ] ed. luce, i., , ; cf. . [ ] mrs. green, _l. c._, i., . [ ] this point is treated more fully in the next chapter. [ ] denifle, _l. c._, pp. , . [ ] "more than three thousand men, women, and children were beheaded that day. god have mercy on their souls, for i trow they were martyrs." froissart (globe), . [ ] ed. luce, pp. , , . [ ] trevelyan, "england in the age of wycliffe," st edn., p. . [ ] "conseil" (in appendix to ducange's "joinville"), chap. xxi., art. . the writer insists strongly, at the same time, on the lord's responsibility to god for his treatment of a creature so helpless. [ ] c., iii., . for the reeve's duties, see smyth, "berkeleys," vol. ii., pp. , . [ ] "those who demand such mortuaries are like worms preying on a corpse" (cardinal jacques de vitry, quoted in lecoy de la marche, "chaire française," p. ). having already, in my "medieval studies" and my "priests and people," dealt more fully with this and several points occurring in the succeeding chapters, i can often dispense with further references here. [ ] this is admirably discussed by mr. corbett in chap. vii. of "social england." [ ] froissart, buchon, ii., . leadam, "star chamber" (selden soc.), p. cxxviii. trevelyan, _l. c._, p. . [ ] vitry, "exempla," pp. , ; "p. p.," a., iv., (cf. lecoy., _l. c._, ); jusserand, "epopée mystique," ; and "vie nomade," , , . [ ] walsingham, an. ; cf. the record in powell, "rising in east anglia," p. . the rioters compelled the constable of the hundred of hoxne to contribute ten conscripted archers to their party. [ ] it must be remembered that the loyal soldiers also had shown in this matter a pusillanimity which contrasted remarkably with their behaviour in the french wars; walsingham notes this with great astonishment. the quotations are from the "chronicle of st. mary's, york," in oman, appendix v., pp. - . [ ] an. ; cf. "eulog. hist.," iii., . the original of both these descriptions seems to be gower, "vox clam." i., ff. [ ] _l. c._, p. . [ ] the first general sanitation act for england was that of the parliament held at cambridge in , and is generally ascribed to the filth of that ancient borough. [ ] "chronicles of london" ( to., ), p. . "eulog. hist." iii., . [ ] c., ix., ; b., v., . it will be noted how nearly this diet accords with that of the widow and her daughter in chaucer's "nuns' priest's tale"; cf. langlois, "la vie en france au m-a.," p. . [ ] "rot. parl." ii., . [ ] _l. c._, c., ix., . [ ] _l. c._, c., x., ff. "papelots" = porridge; "ruel" = bedside; "woneth" = dwell; "witterly" = surely; "and fele to fong," etc. = "and many [children] to clutch at the few pence they earn; under those circumstances, bread and small beer is held an unusual luxury." "pittance" is a monastic word, meaning extra food beyond the daily fare. [ ] an act of provided that "from the middle of march to the middle of september work was to go on from a.m. till between and p.m., with half an hour for breakfast, and an hour and a half for dinner and for the midday sleep. in winter work was to be during daylight. these legal ordinances were not perhaps always kept, but they at least show the standard at which employers aimed" ("social england," vol. ii., chap. vii.). [ ] bishop grosseteste asserted that honest labour on holy days would be far less sinful than the sports which often took their place. "epp." (r.s.), p. . [ ] "la france pendant la guerre de cent ans" ( ), ff. the essay describes a state of things very similar to what we may gather from english records. [ ] "universities of europe," ii., ff. [ ] cooper, "annals of cambridge," an. ; "munim. acad." (r.s.), ; riley, ; strutt ( ), p. . [ ] "shillingford letters," p. . _queke_ was probably a kind of hopscotch, and _penny-prick_ a tossing game; both enjoyed an evil repute, according to strutt. [ ] "rot. parl." ii., ; myrc., e.e.t.s., i., . [ ] "northumberland assize rolls," p. . there is another fatal wrestling-bout in the same roll (p. ), another in the similar norfolk roll analysed by mr. walter rye in the _archæological review_ ( ), and another exactly answering to john and willie's case in prof. maitland's "crown pleas for the county of gloucester," no. . [ ] "c. t.," a., . etienne de bourbon has no doubt that "the devil invented dancing, and is governor and procurator of dancers"; and he explains the popular proverb, that god's thunderbolt falls oftener on the church than on the tavern, by the notorious profanations to which churches were subjected. ("anecdotes," pp. , .) [ ] _l. c._ ii., . [ ] wilkins, "concilia," i., ; iii., , , ; "york fabric rolls," ff; grosseteste, "epp." (r.s.), pp. , , ; giffard's "register" (worcester), p. ; and cutts, "parish priests," p. . [ ] wilkins, i., , ; iii., and _passim_; _archæological journal_, vol. xl., pp. ff; "somerset record society," vol. iv. [ ] eight men died in northampton gaol between aug. and nov. (gross, p. ). the jury casually record: "he died of hunger, thirst, and want."... "want of food and drink, and cold."... "natural death."... "hunger and thirst and natural death." one is really glad to think that so small a proportion of criminals ever found their way into prison. [ ] gross, "office of coroner," p. . [ ] "eng. hist. rev.," vol. . [ ] this still allowed him to migrate to another part of the king's dominions--_e.g._ ireland, scotland, normandy. [ ] worcestershire record society. [ ] gower, "mirour," , . [ ] riley, ; cf. preface to "liber albus," p. cvii., and walsingham, an. . [ ] cf. mr. walter rye's articles in "norf. antq. misc.," vol ii., p. , and _archæological review_ for , p. . [ ] the complaints which meet us in gower and "piers plowman" on this score are more than borne out by the "shillingford letters" (camden soc., ). the worthy mayor of exeter reports faithfully to his fellow-citizens what bribes he gives, and to whom. [ ] chaucer's pupil hoccleve speaks almost equally strongly on the mischief of such pardons ("works," e.e.t.s., vol. iii., pp. ff). [ ] _clergy_ is of course here used in the common medieval sense of _learning_; it does not refer to any body of men. [ ] _i.e._ the type of perfect religion, "the christ that is to be." [ ] be "found" or provided for, so that they need no longer to live by begging and flattery. [ ] this was very commonly the case even in the greatest cathedrals: typical reports may be found in the easily accessible "york fabric rolls" (surtees soc.). with regard to canterbury, a strange legend is current to the effect that lord badlesmere was executed in for his irreverent behaviour in that cathedral. apart from the extraordinary inherent improbability of any such story, the execution of lord badlesmere is one of the best known events in the reign. he was hanged for joining the earl of lancaster in open rebellion against edward, against whom he had fought at boroughbridge. [ ] wilkins, iii., ff; "rot. parl." ii., . i have given fuller details and references in the th of my "medieval studies," "priests and people" (simpkins, _s._). [ ] taking eight test-periods, which cover four dioceses and a space of nearly forty-five years, i find that, before the black death, scarcely more than one-third of the livings in lay gift were presented to men in priest's orders--the exact proportion is priests to non-priests. [ ] rashdall, "universities of europe," ii., , . merely to reckon the number of years theoretically required for the different degrees, and to argue from this to the solid education of the medieval priest (as has sometimes been done), is to ignore the mass of unimpeachable evidence collected by dr. rashdall. only an extremely small fraction of the students took any theological degree whatever. [ ] the list of indictments for grave offences in "munim. acad." (r.s.), vol. ii., contains a very large proportion of graduates, chaplains, and masters of halls; and gerson frequently speaks with bitter indignation of the number of parisian scholars who were debauched by their masters. [ ] in chaucer's words-- he set ... his benefice to hire and left his sheep encumbred in the mire, and ran to london, unto saintë paul's to seeken him a chanterie for souls. the archbishop's decree may be found in the "register of bp. de salopia," p. ; cf. (somerset record society). [ ] quoted from a ms. collection of th-century sermons by ch. petit-dutaillis in "etudes dédiées à g. monod.," p. . [ ] knighton (r.s.), ii., ; at still greater length on p. . walsingham, ann. , ; cf. "eulog. hist.," iii., , . [ ] kingsford, "chronicles of london," p. ; walsingham, an. . [ ] "p. plowman," b., xv., : jusserand, "epop. myst.," p. . see especially the remarkable words of chaucer's contemporary, the banker rulman merswin of strassburg, quoted by c. schmidt, "johannes tauler," p. . after setting forth his conviction that christendom is now ( ) in a worse state than it has been for many hundred years past, and that evil christians stand less in god's love than good jews or heathens who know nothing better than the faith in which they were born, and would accept a better creed if they could see it, merswin then proceeds to reconcile this with the catholic doctrine that none can be saved without baptism. "i will tell thee; this cometh to pass in manifold hidden ways unknown to the most part of christendom in these days; but i will tell thee of one way.... when one of these good heathens or jews draweth near to his end, then cometh god to his help and enlighteneth him so far in christian faith, that with all his heart he desireth baptism. then, even though there be no present baptism for him, yet from the bottom of his heart he yearneth for it: so i tell thee how god doth: he goeth and baptiseth him in the baptism of his good yearning will and his painful death. know therefore that many of these good heathens and jews are in the life eternal, who all came thither in this wise." [ ] "p. plowman," b., x., p. ; cf. langlois, _l. c._, pp. , - . none chaucer's official life by james root hulbert note in making reference to books and manuscripts, i have attempted to use abbreviations which seem, reasonably clear. perhaps the least intelligible are c. r. which stands for close rolls, and l. r. which stands for life records of chaucer (chaucer soc.) wherever possible, i have referred to prints rather than to original manuscripts because the printed calendars are much more accessible. in a work which has involved the copying of innumerable references, many of which are to documents in the public record office not available to me as i revise my copy, it is too much to expect that there should be no inaccuracies. therefore, if the reader discovers erroneous references, i must ask his leniency. for their courtesy and assistance in making books and documents accessible to me, i wish most heartily to thank j. a. herbert, esq., of the manuscript department, the british museum, and edward salisbury, esq., and hubert hall, esq., of the public record office. to my friend and colleague, dr. thomas a. knott, of the university of chicago, i am deeply indebted for his kindness in reading over parts of my manuscript and trying to make their style clearer and more readable. my greatest obligation, however, is to professor john m. manly, not only for encouragement and specific suggestions as to the handling of this subject, but for a training which has made possible whatever in my results may be considered of value. contents introduction: statement of the problem the esquires of the king's household: their families appointment classification services rewards marriage careers of the esquires of the justices of the peace the customs sir john de burley sir edward de berkeley sir thomas de percy sir william de beauchamp richard forester henry scogan oto de graunson bukton chaucer's career and his relation to john of gaunt chaucer's relation to richard ii some general points introduction the researches of sir harris nicolas, dr. furnivall, mr. selby and others have provided us with a considerable mass of detailed information regarding the life and career of geoffrey chaucer. since the publication of nicolas's biography of the poet prefixed to the aldine edition of chaucer's works in , the old traditional biography of conjecture and inference, based often on mere probability or the contents of works erroneously ascribed to chaucer, has disappeared and in its place has been developed an accurate biography based on facts. in the sixty-five years since nicolas's time, however, a second tradition--connected in some way with fact, to be sure--has slowly grown up. writers on chaucer's life have not been content merely to state the facts revealed in the records, but, in their eagerness to get closer to chaucer, have drawn many questionable inferences from those facts. uncertain as to the exact significance of the various appointments which chaucer held, his engagement in diplomatic missions and his annuities, biographers have thought it necessary to find an explanation for what they suppose to be remarkable favors, and have assumed--cautiously in the case of careful scholars but boldly in that of popular writers--that chaucer owed every enhancement of his fortune to his "great patron" john of gaunt. in greater or less degree this conception appears in every biography since nicolas. professor minto in his encyclopedia britannica article [footnote: ed. scribners , vol. , p. .] says with regard to the year : "that was an unfortunate year for him; his patron, john of gaunt, lost his ascendancy at court, and a commission which sat to inquire into the abuses of the preceding administration superseded chaucer in his two comptrollerships. the return of lancaster to power in again brightened his prospects; he was appointed clerk of the king's works," etc. similarly, dr. ward in his life of chaucer, after mentioning that chaucer and john of gaunt were of approximately the same age, writes: [footnote: english men of letters. harpers. , p. .] "nothing could, accordingly, be more natural than that a more or less intimate relationship should have formed itself between them. this relation, there is reason to believe, afterwards ripened on chaucer's part into one of distinct political partisanship." with regard to the loss of the controllerships dr. ward writes: [footnote: p. .] "the new administration (i.e. that of gloucester and his allies) had as usual demanded its victims--and among their number was chaucer.... the explanation usually given is that he fell as an adherent of john of gaunt; perhaps a safer way of putting the matter would be to say that john of gaunt was no longer in england to protect him." a little further on occurs the suggestion that chaucer may have been removed because of "his previous official connection with sir nicholas brembre, who, besides being hated in the city, had been accused of seeking to compass the deaths of the duke and of some of his adherents." [footnote: it is curious that dr. waul did not realize that chaucer could not possibly have belonged to the parties of john of gaunt and of brembre.] later, in connection with a discussion of chaucer's probable attitude toward wiclif, dr. ward writes: [footnote: p. .] "moreover, as has been seen, his long connexion with john of gaunt is a well-established fact; and it has thence been concluded that chaucer fully shared the opinions and tendencies represented by his patron." dr. ward's treatment is cautious and careful compared to that of prof. henry morley in his "english writers." for example, the latter writes: [footnote: vol. , p. .] "lionel lived till , but we shall find that in and after chaucer's relations are with john of gaunt, and the entries in the household of the countess elizabeth might imply no more than that chaucer, page to john of gaunt, was detached for service of the countess upon her coming to london." a few pages further on [footnote: p. .]in the same volume occurs a paragraph on the life of john of gaunt glossed "chaucer's patron." with regard to the grants of a pitcher of wine daily, and the two controllerships, professor morley writes: [footnote: p. .] "these successive gifts chaucer owed to john of gaunt, who, in this last period of his father's reign, took active part in the administration." and again, [footnote: p. .] "john of gaunt had administered affairs of government. it was he, therefore, who had so freely used the power of the crown to bestow marks of favour upon chaucer." [footnote: p. .] "it was his patron the duke, therefore, who, towards the end of , joined chaucer with sir john burley, in some secret service of which the nature is not known." [footnote: studies in chaucer, vol. i, pp. - .] finally, after mentioning chaucer's being "discharged" from his controllerships, morley writes: [footnote: p. .] "during all this time chaucer's patron john of gaunt was away with an army in portugal." such absolute certainty and boldness of statement as professor morley's is scarcely found again in reputable writers on chaucer. professor lounsbury in his life of chaucer implies rather cautiously that chaucer lost his places in the customs because of john of gaunt's absence from the country, and as the result of an investigation of the customs. mr. jusserand in his literary history of england writes: [footnote: eng. trans., , p. .] "for having remained faithful to his protectors, the king and john of gaunt, chaucer, was looked upon with ill favour by the men then in power, of whom gloucester was the head, lost his places and fell into want." f. j. snell in his age of chaucer has similar statements, almost as bold as those of professor morley. [footnote: p. .] "john of gaunt was the poet's life-long friend and patron." [footnote: p. .] "chaucer was now an established favourite of john of gaunt, through whose influence apparently he was accorded this desirable post" (i. e., the first controllership.) most remarkable of all: [footnote: p. .] "outwardly, much depended on the ascendancy of john of lancaster. if the duke of lancaster prospered, chaucer prospered with him. when the duke of gloucester was uppermost, the poet's sky was over cast, and he had hard work to keep himself afloat." the last quotations which i shall give on this point are from skeat's life of chaucer prefixed to the single volume edition of the poet's works in the oxford series: [footnote: p. xiii.] "as the duke of gloucester was ill disposed towards his brother john, it is probable that we can thus account for the fact that, in december of this year, chaucer was dismissed from both his offices, of comptroller of wool and comptroller of petty customs, others being appointed in his place. this sudden and great loss reduced the poet from comparative wealth to poverty; he was compelled to raise money upon his pensions, which were assigned to john scalby on may , ." on the same page: " . on may , richard ii suddenly took the government into his own hands. john of gaunt returned to england soon afterwards, and effected an outward reconciliation between the king and the duke of gloucester. the lancastrian party was now once more in power, and chaucer was appointed clerk of the king's works," etc. closely connected with the question of chaucer's relations with john of gaunt, and indeed fundamental to it--as the constant reference in the foregoing extracts to the grants which chaucer held would indicate--is the problem of the significance of chaucer's annuities, offices, and diplomatic missions. extracts from two writers on chaucer's life will show how this problem has been treated. professor hales in his d. n. b. article [footnote: vol. , p. .] says of the first pension from the king: "this pension, it will be noticed, is given for good service done ... the pension is separate from his pay as a 'valettus' and must refer to some different service." similarly professor lounsbury in his studies in chaucer writes: [footnote: vol. , p. .] "it is from the statement in this document about services already rendered that the inference is drawn that during these years he had been in close connection with the court." in regard to the grant of the wardship of edward staplegate, he says: [footnote: idem, p. .] "this was a common method of rewarding favourites of the crown. in the roll which contains this grant it is said to be conferred upon our beloved esquire." by way of comment on the grant of a pitcher of wine daily, he writes: [footnote: idem, p. .] "though never graced with the title of poet laureate, chaucer obtained at this same period what came to be one of the most distinguishing perquisites which attached itself to that office in later times." with regard to the offices: [footnote: idem, p. .] "chaucer was constantly employed in civil offices at home and in diplomatic missions abroad. in both cases it is very certain that the positions he filled were never in the nature of sinecures." as to the diplomatic missions [footnote: idem, p. .] "their number and their variety, treating as they do of questions of peace and war, show the versatility of his talents as well as his wide knowledge of affairs. nor can i avoid feeling that his appointment upon so many missions, some of them of a highly delicate and important nature, is presumptive evidence that he was not a young man at the time and must therefore have been born earlier than .... these appointments are proofs that can hardly be gainsaid of the value put upon his abilities and services. then, as now, there must have been plenty of persons of ample leisure and lofty connections who [footnote: i vol. , p. .] [footnote: vol. , p. .] [footnote: idem, p. .] [footnote: idem, p. .] [footnote: idem, p. .] [footnote: idem, p. .] were both ready and anxious to be pressed into the service of the state. that these should have been passed by, and a man chosen instead not furnished with high birth and already furnished with other duties, is a fact which indicates, if it does not show convincingly, the confidence reposed in his capacity and judgment." with regard to the controllership, professor lounsbury writes: [footnote: studies in chaucer, p. .] "the oath which chaucer took at his appointment was the usual oath. ... he was made controller of the port because he had earned the appointment by his services in various fields, of activity, and because he was recognized as a man of business, fully qualified to discharge its duties." [footnote: idem, p. .] "in he was granted a much greater favor" (than the right to have a deputy for the petty customs). "on the th of february of that year he obtained the privilege of nominating a permanent deputy. ... it is possible that in the end it wrought him injury, so far as the retention of the post was concerned". a merely casual reading of such statements as those i have given above must make it clear that they attempt to interpret the facts which we have about chaucer, without taking into consideration their setting and connections--conditions in the courts of edward iii and richard ii, and the history of the period. [footnote: note for example the statement on page above that "the duke of gloucester was ill disposed towards his brother john."] surely it is time for an attempt to gain a basis of fact upon which we may judge the real significance of chaucer's grants and his missions and from which we may determine as far as possible his relations with john of gaunt. in the following pages then, i shall attempt first to discover the relative importance of chaucer's place in the court, and the significance of his varied employments, and secondly to find out the certain connections between chaucer and john of gaunt. the means which i shall employ is that of a study of the lives of chaucer's associates--his fellow esquires, and justices of the peace, and his friends--and a comparison of their careers with that of chaucer to determine whether or not the grants he received indicate special favor or patronage, and whether it is necessary to assume the patronage of john of gaunt in particular to explain any step in his career. the esquires of the king's household their families we have the names of the esquires of the king's household in two lists of and , printed in the chaucer life records [footnote: see page ff.]. in the study of the careers of these esquires the most difficult problem is to determine the families from which they were derived. had they come from great families, of course, it would not have been hard to trace their pedigrees. but a long search through county histories and books of genealogy, has revealed the families of only a few, and those few in every case come from an unimportant line. it is clear then that they never were representatives of highly important families. a statement of the antecedents of such esquires as i have been able to trace, the names arranged in alphabetical order, follows. john beauchamp was almost certainly either that john beauchamp of holt who was executed in , or his son. in either case he was descended from a younger branch of the beauchamps of warwick. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , peerage of england, scotland, etc., by g. e. c., vol. , p. .] patrick byker, who was king's "artillier" in the tower of london, [footnote: cal. c. r., p. .] was the son of john de byker who had held the same office before him. [footnote: edw. iii, p. cal. rot. pat. in turr. lon.] william byker, probably a relative, is mentioned from about on as holding that office [footnote: devon's issues, , p. , issues, p. , mem. .]. i have been able to learn nothing further about the family. nicholas careu: in the records one finds reference to nicholas careu the elder and nicholas careu the younger [footnote: ancient deeds .]. since the elder was guardian of the privy seal from to [footnote: rymer, p. , .] and in was one of the executors of the will of edward iii, it seems likely that the esquire was nicholas careu the younger. at any rate the younger was the son of the older [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso, rich. ii.] and they were certainly members of the family of careu in surrey [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. , - cal. pat. roll, passim, cal. inq. p. m. iii, .]. the pedigrees of this family do not show nicholas the younger (so far as i have found). but a nicholas, baron carew, who may have been the keeper of the privy seal, does occur [footnote: visitation of surrey harleian soc. p. .]. the name of his son, as given in the pedigree, is not nicholas; consequently nicholas, the younger, was probably not his eldest son. this last supposition is supported by certain statements in westcote's devonshire [footnote: p. . of course it is not certain that this sir nicholas was the keeper of the privy seal.] where we are told that "sir nicholas carew, baron, of carew castle, montgomery in wales, married the daughter of sir hugh conway of haccomb, and had issue thomas, nicholas, hugh," etc. roger clebury. in westcote's devonshire [footnote: p. .] occurs an account of a family named cloberry, of bradston. in the course of his statement, which is devoid of dates or mention of lands other than bradston, westcote refers to two rogers. several men of the name of william de clopton are mentioned in the county histories. unfortunately no facts appear in the records to connect any one of them with the esquire of that name. at any rate from the accounts given in gage [footnote: gage's history of suffolk: thingoe hundred, p. .] and morant [footnote: morant's essex, vol. , p. .] the following pedigree is clear: ------------------------------------- thomas de clopton sir william de clopton ( edw. iii) | ----------------------------------------- sir william, edmund, john, walter, thomas william the elder sir william, according to gage, married first anet, daughter of sir thomas de grey, and secondly mary, daughter of sir william cockerel. with his second wife he received the manor and advowson of hawsted and lands in hawsted, newton, great and little horningsherth and bury st. edmunds. morant speaks of the family as an ancient one and traces it back to the time of henry i. robert de corby was son of robert and joan de corby [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .]. his father had been yeoman in the king's court and had received a number of grants from the king [footnote: cal. c. r., p. ( ). cal. rot. pat. turr. lon. edw. iii, p, ' b.]. collard, or nicholas, dabrichecourt was a son of nicholas dabrichecourt, brother of sir eustace dabridgecourt of warwickshire [footnote: visit of war (harl.) p. , beltz mem. of garter, p. .]. the latter had won the favour of philippa in france and had come to england when she was married to edward iii. george felbrigge was, according to blomefield's norfolk, [footnote: vol. , p. ff.] descended from a younger branch of the bigods. the head of this family was the earl of norfolk. sir simon, third son of hugh, earl of norfolk | sir roger ----------------+----------------- sir simon john le bigod sir roger roger le bigod sir simon sir george the younger branch of the family had assumed the name of felbrigge from a town of that name in norfolk. as will be seen, george felbrigge came from the younger branch of a younger branch of the family, and his ancestors seem to have been neither influential nor wealthy. robert de ferrer's pedigree was as follows: [footnote: baker's northampton, vol. , p, .] john ferrers = hawise d. of sir robert muscegros. baron ferrers robert, nd baron = agnes ( ) d. of humphrey bohun, | earl of hereford ----------+------------------ john, rd baron robert obit. apr. died since his brother died only a year before the date of the first of the lists, it is very likely that robert became a member of the king's household, while still a younger son. his father, robert, second baron ferrers, was one of the knights of the king's chamber. he fought in the campaigns in france and flanders. thomas frowyk was probably a member of a prominent london family of merchants. lysons writes of the family as follows: [footnote: parishes in middlesex, etc, p. .] "the manor of oldfold was at a very early period the property of the frowyks or frowicks. henry frowyk, who was settled at london in , was sixth in descent from thomas frowyk of the oldfold, the first person mentioned in the pedigree of the family. ... thomas frowyk, a younger brother of henry above mentioned, inherited the oldfold estate, which continued in the family till his grandson's time." this thomas frowyk is mentioned in the close rolls between and as justice of the peace for middlesex, and in [footnote : ancient deeds a .] edward iii as lieutenant of the queen's steward. the connections of thomas hauteyn are not quite so clear but apparently he likewise was derived from a family of london merchants. blomefield's norfolk [footnote : vol. , p. ff.] tells of a family of hauteyns of knightly rank. sir john hauteyn probably became a citizen of london in edward ii and was subsequently receiver of the king's customs of wool at london. even earlier than this, in edward i, a walter hawteyn was sheriff of london [footnote : ancient deeds a ]. in edward iii a john hawteyn was alderman of a ward in london [footnote : idem, a ]. we can suppose some connection between thomas hauteyn and this family because he held certain tenements in london [footnote : idem, a ]. john de herlyng, who was usher of the king's chamber and the most important of the esquires in chaucer's time, came of a family settled in norfolk. blomefield gives a pedigree of the family beginning with this john de herlyng [footnote : vol. , p. ], but, is unable to trace his ancestry definitely. he finds mention of a certain odo de herlyng, but is forced to the conclusion that the family was an unimportant one before the time of john de herlyng. with regard to rauf de knyveton very little information is forthcoming. glover's derby [footnote : vol. , p. , .] gives the pedigree of a family of knivetons who possessed the manor of bradley and says that there was a younger branch of the family which lived at mercaston. ralph, though not specifically mentioned, may have been a younger son of one of these branches. although helmyng leget was an important man in his own time-sheriff of essex and hertfordshire in and [footnote : morant's essex, vol. , p. .], and justice of the peace in suffolk [footnote : cf. cal. pat. roll. - , p. .]--morant is able to give no information about his family. perhaps his position in the society of the county was due in part to the fact that he married an heiress, alice, daughter of sir thomas mandeville. [footnote : cf. cal. pat. roll. - , p. .] john legge, who is on the lists as an esquire, but in the patent rolls is referred to chiefly as a sergeant at arms, was, according to h. t. riley, son of thomas legge, mayor of london in and . [footnote : memorials, p. .] robert louth was evidently derived from a hertfordshire family. a robert de louth was custodian of the castle of hertford and supervisor of the city of hertford in edward iii [footnote: cal. rot. pat. turr. lon., p. b.] and between and was justice of the peace for hertford. [footnote: cal. pat. roll index.] probably robert de louth was a younger son, for john, son and heir of sir roger de louthe (in edward iii) deeded land in hertfordshire to robert de louthe, esquire, his uncle. [footnote: ancient deeds, d .] john de romesey comes of an eminent southampton family of the town of romsey [footnote: woodward, wilks, lockhart, history of nottinghamshire. vol. . p. .] which can be traced back as far as , when walter of romsey was sheriff of hampshire. his pedigree is given as follows by hoare: [footnote: history of wilts, vol. , hundred of oawdon, p. .] walter de romesey edward i. | walter de romesey edward iii = joan | john de romesey = margaret d. and (co. somerset) heir of...? hugh strelley was a member of the family of strelley (straule) of nottingham and derby. from the fact that his name does not occur in the pedigree given in thoroton's history of nottinghamshire [footenote: vol. , p. .] and that he held lands of nicholas de strelley by the fourth part of a knight's fee, [footnote: cal. pat. roll, , p. .] it is clear that he belonged to a subordinate branch of the family. further, he was even a younger son of this secondary stock, for, as brother and heir of philip de strelley, son and heir of william de strelley, he inherited lands in edward iii. [footnote: c. r. , mem. .] gilbert talbot was second, son of sir john talbot of richard's castle in herefordshire. [footnote: cf. nicolas: scrope-grosvenor roll, vol. , p. .] hugh wake may be the hugh wake who married joan de wolverton and whom lipscombe connects with the lordly family of wake of buckinghamshire. [footnote: lipscombe's buckinghamshire, vol. , p. . he is quite wrong as to the date of this hugo's death. cf. close rolls, , pp. - which show that hugh was living at this date.] these eighteen or nineteen esquires, then, are the only ones in the long lists whose family connections i have been able to trace. certain others--as for example the various cheynes, hugh, roger, thomas, john and william, robert la souche, simon de burgh and geoffrey stucle--may have been derived from noble families of their name. in that case, however, they were certainly not in the direct line of descent, for their names do not appear in the pedigree of those families. on the other hand many of the names would seem to indicate that their possessors came from obscure families. in several cases, for example, esquires practically gave up their own names and were called by occupational names. so the richard des armes of the records was probably "richard de careswell vadlet del armes" [footnote: exchequer k. r. accts. , .] who had charge of the king's personal armour. reynold barbour is once called reynold le barber. [footnote: issues p. ( edw. iii).] roger ferrour was one of the king's shoe-smiths, [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] and his personal name was roger bonyngton. [footnote: rich. ii, cal. pat. roll, p. .] robert larderer is never mentioned in the records, but robert maghfeld, called king's larderer, is mentioned. [footnote: issues p. , mem. . devon's issues , p. , p. .] richard waffrer occurs on the records (although the name occurs three times in the household lists), but richard markham, wafferer, occurs frequently. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] richard leche, called king's surgeon, [footnote: edw. iii. issues p. , mem. unnumbered.] was probably identical with richard irlonde, king's surgeon. [footnote: devon's issues , pp. , .] john leche also was king's surgeon, but i have found mention of him under no other name. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. ; , p. .] robert vynour was vine-keeper or gardener to edward iii. [footnote: devon's issues , p. .] certain of the other names, though apparently family names, seem to be of occupational or place origin, e. g. thomas spigurnel, simon de bukenham, john de beverle, henricus almannia, cornelius de ybernia, william de york, etc. finally some names by their very character could scarcely be the names of noble families, e. g. walter whithors, walter chippenham, john cat, etc. from what i have been able to find out about the families of some of these men, from the character of the names, and from the fact that the families of the great bulk of the esquires cannot be traced, it is clear that the esquires of the king's household were chiefly recruited either from the younger sons of knightly families, or from quite undistinguished stock. in three cases--those of john legge, thomas hauteyn and thomas frowyk--it seems probable that they came--as chaucer did--from merchants' families in london. appointment we can scarcely expect any outright statement of the reasons in general or in particular for the appointment of esquires. nevertheless i find two circumstances which may indicate the conditions of appointment; first, some previous connection of their fathers with the king's court, and second, some previous connection on their own part with the household of one of the king's children. of those whose fathers or relatives had been in the court, may be mentioned john beauchamp, [footnote: cf. p. , supra.] patrick byker, [footnote: p. .] nicholas careu, [footnote: p. .] robert corby, [footnote: p. .] collard dabriohecourt, [footnote: p. .] robert de ferrers, [footnote: p. .] and william burele [footnote: gal. pat. roll, , p. .] (who was son of the sir john de burley with whom chaucer was associated on one mission). of course john legge's father--as mayor of london--must have been known at court, and one of thomas hauteyn's progenitors had been receiver of king's customs at london. [footnote: of. p. , supra.] even more interesting is the case of those esquires who before entering the king's service had been in the household of one of his children, i. e. edward the black prince, lionel, duke of clarence (or his wife), john of gaunt, isabella, wife of ingelram de coucy, and edmund, count of cambridge. roger archer, griffith de la chambre, henry de almaigne and richard torperle seem to have been in the service of isabella, the king's daughter, for, in the grants of annuities which they received, special mention is made of their service to her. [footnote: issues p. , mem. ll. p. , mem. . p. , mem,] possibly they were always in her service. stephen romylowe is expressly called esquire of edward prince of wales (the black prince), and he held an annuity from that prince. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. , mem. . cal. pat. roll , p. , , p. .] richard wirle signed an indenture to serve john of gaunt as an esquire in edward iii, after the date at which he is mentioned in the household books. [footnote: duchy of lancaster registers no. . f. dorso.] since he seems never to have received an annuity from the king, or a grant--except in one instance for his wages in the wars--it seems likely that he was never actually in the king's service, but rather in that, of john of gaunt. robert ursewyk was connected in some way with john of gaunt and also with edmund, count of cambridge, son of edward iii. [footnote: idem f. . pat. roll, , mem. .] roger mareschall, john joce and robert bardolf held annuities of twenty pounds each per annum from lionel duke of clarence [footnote: cal. pat. boll , p. .] and so were probably at one time in his service. finally the most interesting case of all is that of geoffrey stucle, whose career and employments curiously parallel chaucer's and who in edward iii was valet to elizabeth, countess of ulster. [footnote: issues, p. , mem, , .] classification the two lists in the household books classify the members of the household in different ways--one list according to function and the other, apparently, according to length of service. the first is the system according to which the schedule of names conjecturally dated december [footnote: printed as number of the chaucer records (page ).] was made, and the latter is the system governing the list of september , (_number_ chaucer _records_, page _ _.) a glance at the second of these and comparison with the first will show how it was made up. it classifies the esquires in two groups--"esquiers de greindre estat" and "esquiers de meindre degree." looking at the names of the "esquiers de greindre estat" we notice that the first thirteen are names which appear in the group of "esquiers" of , that the next ten are identical--even in the order of occurrence--with the list of "sergeantz des armes" of , that the following seven are the first seven in the list of "sergeantz des offices parvantz furrures a chaperon" of (in the same order), that then andrew tyndale who in was an "esquier ma dame" appears, and is followed by the rest of, the "sergeantz des offices parvantz furrures," etc., (in the same order as in ) that the next six were in "esquiers ma dame," and that finally occur ten names not found in the lists of . from this comparison it is clear that the list of was made up from a series of lists of different departments in the king's household. the list of "esquiers de meindre degree" of was doubtless made in the same way, although the evidence is not so conclusive. the first twenty-two names correspond to names in the list of esquiers of ; the next eleven occur in the list of "esquiers survenantz" of ; the following five appear among the "esquiers ma dame" of ; the next thirteen do not occur in the lists of ; but the following eight correspond even in order to the list of "esquiers fauconers" of . it is therefore clear that we have here a cross division. that the list of gives a division according to function is clear from the titles of all groups except one. the esquires classified as "fauconers" "survenantz," "ma dame," etc., performed the functions suggested by those titles--a fact which can be demonstrated by many references to the function of these men in other documents. in the case of the one exception, the "sergeantz des offices parvantz furrures a chaperon," it is clear that they performed duties similar to those of the "esquiers survenantz." for example, richard des armes was valet of the king's arms; [footnote: exchequer, k. r. accts. , , f. dorso. idem. no. .] william blacomore was one of the king's buyers, subordinate to the purveyor of fresh and salt fish [footnote: c. r. p. .] john de conyngsby was likewise a buyer of victuals for the household [footnote: pet. roll , mem. .], john goderik and john gosedene were cooks in the household [footnote: pat. roll , p. , devon's issues, , p. .]; richard leche was king's surgeon [footnote: idem. p. mem. not numbered.], thomas de stanes was sub-purveyor of the poultry [footnote: c. r. , p. .]; william strete was the king's butler [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .]; edmond de tettesworth was the king's baker [footnote: pat. roll, , p. .], etc. hence it is clear that all these performed duties which in the main were of a menial character. on the other hand, the division into two groups in the list of seems to indicate not the function of the esquires, but their rank in the household. their rank, in turn, appears to be determined by various considerations--function (all the falconers of are enrolled among the esquires of less degree in ), length of service, and to some extent considerations which are not manifest. that length of service played some part in the division seems clear from a study and comparison of the careers of the various men. since we are interested in knowing particularly the significance of the classification of chaucer who appeared in as an esquier, i shall confine myself to a consideration of the "esquiers" of that year. the names of the esquires of greater degree with the date at which they are first mentioned in connection with the household (in documents outside the household books) follow: johan herlyng. edward iii ( ) [footnote: abb. rot. orig., vol. , p. .] wauter whithors. [footnote: c. r., p. .] johan de beverle. edward iii ( ) [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] johan romeseye. edward iii ( ) [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] wauter walsh. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: idem , men. .] roger clebury. [footnote: idem, p. .] helmyng leget. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] rauf de knyveton. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] richard torperle. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: idem , mem. .] johan northrugg. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] hanyn narrett. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] symond de bokenham. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] johan legg. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: idem , mem. .] the "esquiers de meindre degree" follow: hugh wake. [footnote: idem, p. .] piers de cornewaill. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: idem , mem. .] robert ferrers. [footnote: rymer iii, .] robert corby. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: c. r. mem. , dorso. the last two are difficult to distinguish from their fathers of the same name who had been in the king's court before their time] collard daubrichecourt. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] thomas hauteyn. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: idem , p. . issues, p. , mem. .] hugh cheyne. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] thomas foxle. [footnote: i cannot identify him surely; a thomas de foxle was in the king's court in edw. iii ff (abb. rot. orig. ii, p. ); he was growing old in (cal. pat. roll, p. ) and-died edw. iii (cal. inq. p. m. ii , leaving his property to a son and heir john).] geffrey chaucer. geffrey styuecle. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: issues, p. , mem. . in edw. iii in service of countess of ulster.] symon de burgh. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] johan de tychemerssh. no mention outside of household books, where he appears for first time in . robert la zouche. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] esmon rose. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] laurence hauberk. [footnote: issues , devon, pp. , .] griffith del chambre. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] johan de thorpe. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] thomas hertfordyngbury. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] hugh straule. no certain mention as valet or esquire. hugh lyngeyn. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: idem , mem. ] nicholas prage. edward iii. ( ) [footnote: exchequer k. r. accts., bundle , no. ] richard wirle. no record as valet or esquire of the king. a comparison of the two sections shows that the first contains the names of two men whose service goes back as far as , , and that it contains the name of no one who was not by associated with the court. the second section, on the other hand, contains but one name of a date earlier than and several which do not occur in the records before the time of this document, or in fact until a year or two later. the fact however that in a number of cases the second section contains names of men who entered the household years before others whose names occur in the first section makes it seem probable that special circumstances might influence the classification of a given esquire. linked with this problem of classification is one of nomenclature--the use of the terms "vallettus" and "esquier" (or, the latin equivalents of the latter, "armiger" and "scutifer"). chaucer scholars have generally assumed that the term "esquier" represents a rank higher than "vallettus." but they give no evidence in support, of this distinction, and we are interested in knowing whether it is correct or not. a first glance at the list of , to be sure, and the observation that cooks and falconers, a shoe-smith [footnote: pat. roll , p. ] and a larderer [footnote: issues (devon) , p. ) are called "esquiers" there, might lead one to think that the word can have but a vague force and no real difference in meaning from "vallettus." but an examination of other documents shows that the use of the term "esquier" in the household lists does not represent the customary usage of the time. it is to be noted for example that many of the "esquiers" of , practically all of the "esquiers des offices" [footnote: for indication of their function see p. etc.], and the "esquiers survenantz" of are not called esquires in the list of , the patent rolls, close rolls, issue rolls or fine rolls. william de risceby and thomas spigurnell are the only clear exceptions to this rule. of the "esquiers survenantz" i have noted eighteen references with mention of title, in seventeen of which the man named is called "vallettus" or "serviens." of the "sergeantz des offices," richard des armes is called "vallettus" or "serviens" in twelve different entries, never "esquier." [footnote: pat. roll , mem. , , mem. , mem. , , mem. , issues, p. , mem. , p. , mem. , etc.] i have noted thirty-five other references to men in the same classification with the title "vallettus." [footnote: pat. roll , mem. issues p. , pat. roll , mem. , , mem. , idem, mem. , etc.] it is clear then that although the usage is not strict these men were really of the rank of "vallettus," and that this rank was lower than that of "esquier." possibly the household books used the term "esquier" in this loose way out of courtesy, but the other documents--which were strictly official--for the most part used it more exactly in accordance with a man's actual rank. from a study of the records of the "esquiers" of (the group to which in that year chaucer belonged) we learn further conditions under which the terms "vallettus" and "armiger" or "scutifer" are used. in nearly all cases these esquires in the early years of their career, are called "vallettus," after some years of service they are occasionally called "armiger," and finally after the passage of more years are always called "armiger" or "scutifer." demonstration of this fact would take pages of mere references; but it can be indicated in a typical case, that of geoffrey stucle, chosen because of the fact that his classification is throughout the same as chaucer's. in , , and edward iii he is called "vallettus," in edward iii, he appears once as "scutifer," and twice as "vallettus"; in edward iii he is once named "vallettus"; in edward iii he is called once "scutifer" and another time "vallettus"; in edward iii he is mentioned twice as "vallettus"; in and edward iii he is "armiger"; in edward iii he is once "vallettus" and once "armiger"; in edward iii he is called "armiger" twice; in edward iii, and and richard ii he is called "armiger." [footnote: pat. roll , mem. , mem. , mem. , mem. , mem. , mem. , issues p. , mem. , mem. , a mem. , p. , mem. , mem. (twice) p. , mem. , , p. , mem. , mem. not numbered, mem. , mem. not numbered, mem. , mem. , mem. . mem. .] from this and the other cases in the list of esquires, it is clear that the term "esquier" (the equivalent of scutifer and armiger) indicates a rank above that of "vallettus." the members of chaucer's group, in nearly every case, were at first entitled "valletti" and then in course of time became "esquiers." whatever may be the conclusion with regard to the meaning of those titles, however, it is clear, from the facts cited above, that the list of "esquiers" of and not that of the "esquiers de meindre degree" of , gives the names of the men who were actually in the same class as chaucer. consequently in the consideration of the esquires which follows greater attention will be paid to the "esquiers" of than to the other classes. services with regard to the services which the household books prescribe for the esquires, i shall say nothing. in the public records, however, i have found special services to which the individual esquires were assigned. in the first place certain of these men--even those who appear in the list of as "esquiers," and in that of as "esquiers de greindre estat," or "esquiers de meindre degree"--performed special functions of a character which makes it seem unlikely that they ever did the service which the household books required of an esquire of the king's household. in the list of , for example, esmon rose was custodian of the great horses of the king [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .], hugh lyngeyn was a buyer of the household [footnote: pat. roll , p. .], nicholas prage was first king's minstrel, and later serjeant at arms, [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , edw. iii, p. , mem. , edw. iii.] simond de bokenham was chief serjeant of the larder [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .], and john legge was serjeant at arms [footnote: rymer iii, , .]. secondly, certain of the esquires held special offices in the king's chamber. john herlyng and walter walsh were ushers of the king's chamber [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. , idem p. .]. john de beauchamp was keeper of the king's jewels or receiver of the king's chamber for some years up to richard ii [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .]; then for a short time he was seneschall (steward) of the king's household [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .]. thomas cheyne was in edward iii keeper of the keys of the coffers of the king's jewels [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .]. john de salesbury was at different times called usher of the king's chamber and keeper of the king's jewels [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. , cal. pat. roll - passim.]. helmyng leget was from for many years receiver of the king's chamber, his business being to keep the king's money, receive it from various people and pay it out [footnote: rymer, vol. , p. .]. thirdly, esquires were frequently being sent about england on the king's business. for example in simon de bukenham was appointed buyer of horses for the king's expedition into scotland [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .]; in laurence hauberk was sent to berwick-upon-tweed and from there by sea-coast to retain shipping for the passage of robert knolles to normandy [footnote: devon's issues, p. .]; similarly at other times helmyng leget and john romesey, john de salesbury and thomas spigurnell were detailed to take ships for royal expeditions [footnote: issues, p. , mem. not numbered, p. , mem. , p. , mem. . rymer, vol. , p. .]. again, walter whithors in was sent to york to borrow money from divers abbots, priors and others for the king's use [footnote: devon's issues, p. .], in john de beauchamp was sent to the abbot of gloucester to borrow money for the king's use [footnote: idem, p. . issues, p. , mem.], and in richard ii walter chippenham was assigned to raise money for the king's use out of the lands of the late edmund mortimer, count of march [footnote: similarly geoffrey stucle, p. , mem. .]. in richard ii simon de burgh was appointed to inquire into the possessions held by the rebels who had lately risen against the king in cambridge [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .]. in edward iii, nicholas dabridgecourt was appointed to convey the children of charles of bloys from the custody of roger beauchamp to that of robert de morton [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .]. of less importance but equal frequency are the employments of esquires to convey money from the king's treasury or from some customs house to the king's wardrobe; john de beauchamp de holt le ffitz, hugh cheyne, rauf de knyveton, walter chippenham and robert la zouche were at various times so employed [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , p. , mem. , devon, p. , p. , mem. , p. , mem. , p. , mem. .]. of course during the king's wars many of the esquires served in the army abroad. in the issues of the exchequer for , for example, many entries of this type appear--john de beverle--l s. d. due in the wardrobe for the expenses of himself, his men at arms and archers in the war. _devon_ p. . hugh cheyne, _idem_, p. , robert de corby, _idem_, p. . collard dabridgecourt, p. . helming leget, _idem_ p. . john legge, _idem_ p. . thomas spigurnell, p. , etc. most interesting with relation to chaucer, however, is the employment of esquires on missions abroad. apparently certain individuals were assigned especially to this kind of business and many of these were kept almost constantly engaged in it. for example, george felbrig, in edward iii, was sent on the king's secret business to john duke of brittany in flanders. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in richard he was sent with john burle and others on king's secret business to milan. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] in richard ii he was sent to the king of the romans and of bohemia on secret business touching the king's marriage. [footnote: idem, p. , mem .] in richard ii he was sent again to flanders. [footnote: idem, p. , mem .] in richard ii (being then knight of the king's chamber) he was sent to middelburgh to receive the homage of the duke of gueldres, [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] and again in richard ii he was sent on the king's business to the king of the romans and of bohemia. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] that the service was not a special honour but merely a business function of the esquire is clear from the fact that felbrig was on one occasion called, "king's messenger beyond seas." [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] similarly geoffrey stucle (whose career, i have already pointed out, closely parallels chaucer's) made many voyages abroad in the king's business between edward iii and richard ii. in edward iii, and again in edward iii, he was sent to normandy on the king's business. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , a , mem. , mem .] on many of his missions he merely carried letters to john of gaunt, (in devon's issues , for example, five such missions in a single year are mentioned), or to various nobles directing them to arm themselves for an expedition under john of gaunt. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] likewise stephen romylowe was employed on many missions from edward iii on. [footnote: idem edw. iii, p. mem , .] in edward iii he was sent "in nuncio domini regis" to flanders, [footnote: idem, p. , mem. not numbered.] in edward iii on another mission, [footnote: idem p. , mem. .] in edward iii with john de beauchamp, banneret, to holland, flanders, zealand, etc. [footnote: idem p. , mem. .] these are the most important examples of such employment, but many other esquires--notably john padbury, who in was an "esquier survenant" [footnote: issues, p. (?) mem. , p. , mem. , p. , mem. , p. , mem. , etc.]--made occasional voyages. rewards the regular pay of an esquire of the household was seven pence halfpenny a day. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. , , p. .] the pay of a king's sergeant at arms was twelve pence a day--a sum usually granted for life. [footnote: richard imworth, thomas stafford, thomas staples, wauter de leycester, etc., had grants of d. daily for life.] it is to be observed, however, that the sergeants-at-arms received very few other grants. the esquires, on the other hand, received extremely valuable grants in great numbers. in particular they were given annuities, grants of land, grants of office, custody of lands belonging to heirs under age, usually with marriage of the heir, and corrodies at monasteries. taking up the first of these i shall confine myself to the "esquiers" of , since-from chaucer's position in the lists in that year and in --they would seem to be the men with whom chaucer is to be associated. in stating the amounts of the annuities i shall give the total sum which each man received. the names follow in the order of the lists of . johan de herlyng, l , + l + l , s. d. + l , s. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] wauter whithors, l . [footnote: idem , p. .] thomas cheyne, l . [footnote: issues a, , mem. .] johan de beverle, l ; s. d. [footnote: devon's issues , p. .] johan de romesey, l . [footnote: idem, p. . issues, p. , mem, . ] wauter walssh, l . s hugh wake, l . [footnote: devon's issues , p. .] roger clebury, l . [footnote: p. , mem. .] piers de cornewaill, l . [footnote: p. , mem. .] robert de ferers, no annuity found. elmyn leget, m. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] robert de corby, l . [footnote: idem , mem. .] collard dabrichecourt, l . [footnote: idem , mem. .] thomas hauteyn, l . [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] hugh cheyne, m. [footnote: pat. roll , mem, .] thomas foxle--no information whatever. [footnote: outside of these lists i have been able to find no information about these men.] geffrey chaucer. geffrey stuele, l . [footnote: devon's issues , p. .] simond de burgh, l + m. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , pp. , .] johan tichemerssh--no information whatever. [footnote: see note, preceding page.] robert la souche, l . [footnote: issues, p. , mem] esmon rose (and wife, agnes archer) m. [footnote: cal. pat. roll p. .] laurence hauberk--no certain information as esquire. griffith de la chambre, l . [footnote: issues p. mem. . cal. pat . , p. .] johan de thorp, m. , raulyn erchedeakne--no information whatever. [footnote: see note, preceding page.] rauf de knyveton, m. [footnote: devon's issues, , p. .] thomas hertfordyngbury, l . [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] hugh strelley, m. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] hugh lyngeyn, l . [footnote: pat. roll , .] nicholas prage, m. [footnote: devon's issues , p. .] richard torperle, d. daily. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p .] richard wirle, no annuity. johan northrugge, m. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. ' ] hanyn narrett, l . [footnote: idem p. , mem. .] simond de bokenham, l . [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] johan legge, d. daily [footnote: idem, p. .] in only two cases in which we find other information about an esquire do we find no annuity. in a few cases, i have been able to find out nothing at all about the men. in all others, annuities ranging from ten marks up to l are found. apparently then the receipt of an annuity was absolutely a normal feature of the career of an esquire. none of the other forms of grants was given so systematically and uniformly as that of annuities, but all of the others were very common. the nature and extent of the grants of land, and of guardianships, will appear in the accounts of the careers of individual esquires. they are so irregular in their character, are changed so frequently and are given on such varying 'conditions, that an accurate list could scarcely be made. the matter of grants of offices, particularly in the customs, is, however, more easy to handle. at the time when chaucer was given his controllership, offices in the customs seem to have been used regularly as sinecures for the esquires. in griffith de la chambre was granted the office of gauging of wine in the towns of lenn and great yarmouth. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] at the same time roger clebury received a similar grant. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] in william de clopton had a grant for life of the collectorship of the port of london with wages of l . apparently he did not actually exercise the office because certain merchants to whom the king had farmed the customs of the realm were directed to pay him his wages. [footnote: c. r. , p. .] in he and john herlyng--another esquire--were collectors of the petty customs in london. [footnote: rymer, vol. , p. .] in and again in his deputy is specifically mentioned. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, , p. ; c. r. , p. .] in john de herlyng was granted the office of controller of customs in boston (pat. roll p. ). in he was granted the office of controller of wools, hides and wool-fells, wines and all other merchandise at newcastle-upon-tyne with this added provision, "furthermore because he stays continually in the king's company by his order, he may substitute for himself a deputy, in the said office," etc. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in he was controller of the customs in the port of boston and likewise in that of lenne--with provision in the same terms as those above for a deputy in the latter office--and collector of the petty custom in london--with deputy. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, , pp. , , .] in he surrendered the office of controller of customs at boston for an annuity of ten marks. [footnote: idem. , p. .] at one time he was also controller in the port of st. botolph. [footnote: devon's issues, , p. .] from the fact that the records show herlyng was constantly in the king's court, it is clear that he exercised all these offices by deputy. in edward iii helmyng leget was granted the office of keeper of the smaller piece of the seal for recognizances of debts in london, [footnote: cal. pat roll - , p. .] with power to execute the office by deputy. he held this office until . [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] edmund rose held the office of keeper of the smaller piece of the seal in norwich, with deputy. [footnote: idem , p. .] john de thorp was in appointed controller of customs of wines, wools, etc. at southampton on condition that he execute the office in person. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] walter whithors held the offices of keeper of the smaller piece of the seal in york, in , and tronager of wool in the port of lenne in with deputy in both offices. [footnote: idem, pp. , .] in addition to offices in the customs, places as parker of a king's forest, or keeper of a royal castle were frequently given to the esquires. so hugh cheyne in had the custody of shrewsbury castle with wages of seven pence halfpenny therefor. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] helmyng leget and thomas cheyne at various times held the office of constable of windsor castle. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] john de beverle and robert corby likewise had the constableship of the castle of ledes. [footnote: idem , mem. , exchequer k. r. accts. - .] william archebald was forester of the forest of braden. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] john de beverle was parker of eltham parks. [footnote: cal. pat. roll - , p. .] walter whithors in was steward of the forest of galtres. many more examples of such grants of offices could be given. many of the esquires received corrodies--in most cases probably commuted for a certain yearly sum. for example, william archebald held a eorrody at glastonbury from edward iii [footnote: c. r. , mem. . ] on and yet in is stated in the patent rolls to have been retained to stay with the king. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] so it could be shown in most cases that esquires holding corrodies did not by any means live constantly in their monasteries. william gambon, especially, could scarcely have done so since he held corrodies at salop, (shrewsbury), hayles, haylyng, st. oswald de nostell, coventre and wenlok, at the same time. [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] other esquires who held corrodies and the names of their monasteries follow: john beauchamp, pershoore (wigorn); [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] john salesbury, stanlee; [footnote: idem , mem. dorso.] simon de bokenham, ely; [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] helmyng leget, ramsey; [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] roger clebury, shrewsbury; [footnote: cal. c. r. , p. .] peter cornwaill, redyng; [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] john herlyng, convent of church of christ, canterbury; [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] hugh lyngeyn, dunstaple; [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] stephen romylowe, bardenay. [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] grants of wine are scarcely so common as the other kinds of grants and, so far as i have found, they are not usually given to prominent esquires. john roos had a grant of two tuns of wine yearly; [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] william risceby of "one dolium" or two pipes of gascon wine; [footnote: pat. roll mem. .] william strete and william archebald each of one tun of gascon wine yearly; [footnote: cal. pat. roll , pp. , ] john de beverle and thomas cheyne each of two dolia of gascon wine yearly; [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] and hugh lyngeyn of one tun of red wine of gascony yearly. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] one feature of the form of royal grants remains to be mentioned. writers on chaucer have frequently called attention to the fact that his grants contain a statement that they are made for good service done. [footnote: cf. hales, lounsbury ante.] this is merely a regular part of the form of a grant. any enrollments of grants--such as those noted on the preceding page--will give examples of the use of this phrase. further, the form of grant practically always includes a characterization of the grantee as "dilectus vallettus," "dilectus serviens," "dilectus armiger," etc. marriage the wives of the esquires came chiefly from two classes--first, the "domicellae" of the queen's retinue, and second, the daughters and heiresses of country gentlemen. esquires who married wives from the second class frequently owed a great part of their importance in the county to the estates which their wives brought. so, frequently in the county histories occurs an account of some esquire whose family and antecedents the writer has been, unable to trace, but who was prominent in the county--sheriff perhaps or knight of the shire--as a result of the lands he held in right of his wife. an example of this is helmyng leget, who was member of parliament for essex in and henry iv, and sheriff in and . he had married alice, daughter and coheir of sir thomas mandeville and received the estates of stapleford-taney, bromfield, chatham hall in great waltham and eastwick in hertfordshire. [footnote: morant's essex vol. , p. ; vol. , part , p. .] similarly john de salesbury, who had received from the king a grant of the custody of the estates of john de hastang defunct, and of the marriage of the latter's daughter and heir johanna, married the lady himself and held in her right extensive lands. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. , idem , mem. , dugdale's warwick, p. .] john beauchamp married joan, daughter and heir of robert le fitzwyth. [footnote: ancient deeds, a .] simond de bokenham married matilda gerounde, who brought him the only land he possessed at his death. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. , inq. p. m. vol. , p. . ] hugh cheyne married joan, daughter and heir of john de wodeford. [footnote: abb. rot. orig. ii; .] robert corby married alice, daughter and heir of sir john gousall. [footnote: hasted's kent ii, .] collard dabrichecourt married elizabeth, daughter and heir of sibilla, daughter of thomas de saye, and held in her right strathfield-saye. [footnote: beltz. mem. of garter, p. ff, woodworth, wilks, lockhart, hampshire iii, .] george felbrig married margaret, daughter of elizabeth dame de aspall, and received with her certain lands in norfolk and suffolk. [footnote: abstracts and indexes--duchy of lancaster i, .] robert ferrers married elizabeth boteler, daughter and heir of william boteler of wemme. [footnote: dugdale i. . cal. inq. p.m. ill, .] john legge married agnes de northwode, coheir of the manour of ertindon in surrey. [footnote: manning's surrey i. .] hugh wake married joan de wolverton and received lands with her. [footnote: baker's northampton ii, .] walter walssh married joan duylle, widow of john fletcher, called "bel," and received with her the house of gravebury, which she and her former husband had held. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] walter whithors married mabel, daughter and coheir of philip niweham (or newnham.) [footnote: dugdale's warwickshire, p. .] even more interesting--because of their analogy with chaucer's marriage--are the instances of marriage with the queen's damsels. in one case, at least, this kind of alliance was considered a meritorious action on the part of the esquire concerned, for not only did he receive an annuity therefor, but ever afterwards when a payment was made on the annuity, the circumstances were given in full. "to edmund rose, valletus, to whom the king has given ten pounds per annum to be received at the exchequer, for good service rendered to the king and because he has married agnes archer formerly damsel to queen philippa." [footnote: issues, p. , p. ; mem. , etc.] similarly roger archer (called "esquier ma dame," and, in the grant, valet to isabella, daughter of edward iii) married alexandra de la mote damsel to isabella. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. . issues, p. , mem, .] it is curious that in both these cases the maiden name of the wife is given in the issue rolls for years after the grant of the annuities. in the other cases only the surname of the husband is given. these cases are: walter wyght and margaret wyght, [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] thomas and katherine spigurnell, [footnote: l.r. p. , c.r. , p. , , .] john and almicia de beverle, [footnote: l.r. p, , cal. inq. p.m. iii, .] john and stephanetta olney, [footnote: l.r. p. . issues, p. , mem, .] robert and joan louth, [footnote: l.r. p. , pat. roll , mem. .] piers and alice preston, [footnote: pat. roll , p. .] hugh and agatha lyngeyn [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] and john and margaret romsey. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. , home's wilts, hundred of cawdon, p. .] the careers of the individual esquires in the preparation of this study, i have collected all the facts i could find about the esquires of . [footnote: a statement of the facts will be found deposited in the university of chicago library.] since the essential facts about them have been discussed in the preceding pages, however, i shall present in detail the careers of only three or four typical esquires. of the others, john de herlyng, for many years usher of the king's chamber, received many grants from the king and held many offices; thomas cheyne, [footnote: cf. froissart xx, .] keeper of the royal jewels, fought in the wars in france and received grants of lands and wardships; john de romeseye acted at various times as royal messenger, and as royal treasurer at calais; walter walssh, another usher of the king's chamber, received the custody of the possessions of an alien abbey, and the grant of a house and land; hugh wake made journeys on the king's service and received some grants; roger clebury and piers de cornewaill received a few grants; robert de ferrers had the grant of a manor; helmyng leget, for years receiver of the king's chamber, had many grants of land and custodies; robert de corby had the grant of a manor; collard dabrichecourt had grants of 'manors and offices; thomas hauteyn received one custody and one grant of land in ely; hugh cheyne had a few grants; the only thomas foxle i find trace of, who died in edward iii, received some grants; simond de burgh is mentioned in many financial transactions of the time, and he was for some time treasurer of calais; of john tichemerssh, i find no mention, and of robert la souche very little; esmon rose was keeper of the king's horses; information about laurence hauberk is ambiguous since there seem to have been two or more men of that name; griffith de la chambre and john de thorpe received minor grants; of raulyn erchedeakne i find no mention; thomas hertfordyngbury, hugh strelley, hugh lyngen, nicholas prage and richard torperle received various small grants; richard de wirle appears only as an esquire of john of gaunt; about john northrugge and hanyn narrett, i find very little; simond de bokenham was chief sergeant of the king's larder; and john legge, who seems to have been really an esquire at arms, met his death in the peasant's revolt. walter whithors walter whithors is mentioned in the records first in when he received an order granting him his wages for life, and the custody of the river posse for life. [footnote: c. r., p. .] in he was granted two marriages, in , five marks a year, the tronagership of lenn, and the constableship of conisborough castle. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, pp. , , , , .] in the king granted whithors all the tenements and rents in the city of london which were in the king's hands by reason of the forfeiture of a certain william de mordon. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in the same year he was given the custody of the smaller piece of the seal for recognizances of debts in the city of york. [footnote: idem, p. .] in he received a grant of forfeited houses in the county of york, [footnote: idem, p. .] and likewise a mill and more lands forfeited by william de mordon. [footnote: idem, p. .] furthermore he was given in the same year the right to dispose of some of these latter lands. [footnote: idem, p. .] in further he was granted the stewardship of the forest of galtres, and the roots of all trees cut down in that forest. [footnote: idem, pp. , --apparently with deputy, for in cal. pat. roll , p. , a lieutenant is mentioned.] in the office of tronage of the wools at lenne was granted to his former deputy, at the request of walter whithora who surrendered a grant of that office. [footnote: idem, pp. , .] next year he was given an annuity of twenty marks, and also the right to exercise the office of recognizances of debts by deputy, "because he stays continually in the king's service, at his side." [footnote: idem, pp. , .] in the same year he was granted the custody of the forest of lynton, adjacent to galtres. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in whithors was granted certain houses in york formerly belonging to richard de snaweshull, [footnote: pat. roll , mem, .] and also the custody of the lands and tenements formerly belonging to nicholas de litton, during the minority of the heir. [footnote: idem, mem. .] in he was given a messuage and shop formerly owned by walter ragoun in london and worth forty shillings yearly. [footnote: idem , mem, .] from a document of the same year we learn something about the marriage of his daughter. by this document stephen wydeslade, cousin and heir of thomas branche, acknowledged a debt of two hundred pounds to whithors, which is to be paid in the form of an annuity of twelve marks to mary, daughter of whithors and widow of thomas branche. she is to have further as dower certain manors in norfolk and surrey. her husband had been a ward of her father's and had died a minor. [footnote: c. r., p. .] in whithors was pardoned the payment of all moneys which he had drawn in advance from the wardrobe. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] likewise in the same year he had a grant of the marriage of the son and heir of john colvyll, chivaler, defunct. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in he received a grant of the custody of the palace of westminster and the prison of the fleet, [footnote: idem , mem. .] and of the custody of all lands and tenements formerly the property of william bruyn, defunct. [footnote: idem, mem. .] in whithors had a grant of the manour of naburn with pertinences in york, formerly the property of a felon. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in he was granted free warren in brenchesham, surrey. [footnote: cal. rot. chart, p. .] and in the same year and nearly until his death, he had an annuity of forty marks a year as usher or doorkeeper of the king's free chapel of windsor. for this office also he received twelve pence a day "because that the same lord the king charged the same walter to carry a wand in the presence of the said lord the king, before the college" when the king personally should be there, "and that the same walter might be able more easily to support that charge." [footnote: devon's issues, p. .] in that year likewise he was sent to york to borrow money from divers abbots, priors and others for the king's use. [footnote: idem, p. .] in he and isabella his wife acquired by a devious series of transfers a messuage of land with reversion to their son walter. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in gerard brocas acknowledged a debt of m. to walter whithors. [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] in he was granted the lands and tenements of simon raunville, defunct, and the marriage of his heiress to ralph, son of walter whithors. in he was still exercising the office of custodian of the smaller piece of the seal for york by deputy. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] three years later the king at his supplication granted his annuity of forty marks to another. [footnote: idem, p. .] in he was apparently dead, for the king granted to another the office of usher of st. george's chapel, and the house which he had occupied. [footnote: idem, p. .] according to dugdale, walter whithors married mabel, daughter and coheir of philip neweham (or newnham) of neunham padox in warwick. their son and heir was sir ralph whitehorse kt. [footnote: warwickshire, p. .] john de beverle john de beverle is particularly interesting to us because in he was joined with chaucer as surety for william de beauchamp when the latter received the custody of the castle and county of pembroke. [footnote: l. r., p. ] the first mention of him in the public records occurs in edward iii when he was granted the custody of all the lands and tenements of james de pabenham, knight, defunct, during the minority of the heir, [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] and when he and amicia de bockeshill his wife were granted twenty pounds yearly by the king. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in the next year he was granted the office of constable of the castle of limerick and certain water rights at the same place. [footnote: idem , mem. , .] in edward iii john de beverle, who was holding the manor of pencrich, staffordshire, from the king in capite, having acquired it from john, son and heir of hugo blount, was pardoned the transgression committed in entering upon it. in the same year he was granted the right to hold a fair at pencrych. [footnote: cal. rot. chart, p. .] in edward iii, he received a grant of two tenements in the parish of st. michael atte corne, london, [footnote: cal. rot. pat. tur. lon., p. b] at the customary rent; he established a chantry; [footnote: inq. ad. quod damnum, p. .] and received a grant of the constableship of the castle of leeds for life, with wages s. therefore. [footnote: cal. rot. pat. tur. lon., p. .] in - edward iii, he was granted the right of free warren in mendlesden, [footnote: cal. rot. chart, p. .] hertfordshire. in edward iii, he was granted the manor of mendlesden [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] and two dolia of gascon wine yearly. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in edward iii, the king granted his mother, matilda, a number of tenements and shops in london. [footnote: idem , mem. .] he himself was in that year granted the manor of bukenhull for life, with reversion to his heirs, [footnote: idem , mem. .] and the custody of the manor of melton in kent during the minority of the heir. [footnote: idem , mem. .] he seems also in that year to have sold to the count of arundell and others his manor of pencrych. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in edward iii john de beverle was granted the manor of bofford in oxford. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in the next year he was granted the right to hunt in the parks and forests of the king, with this prologue: "redeuntes ad memoriam obsequia et servicia placida que dilectus armiger noster johannes de beverlee nobis non absque periculis et rerum despendiis a longo tempore impendit" etc. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in edward iii permission was given to walter bygod, miles, to grant at farm to john de beverle the manors of alfreston (essex) and marham (norfolk) at a rent of l to walter bygod. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in that year also a grant by ingelram de courcy to john de beverle of the manor of tremworth in kent was confirmed by the king. [footnote: idem , mem. .] finally he was granted the parkership of eltham forest for life with pay of three pence per day. [footnote: idem , mem. .] he was at this time drawing an annuity of l , s. d. for life and he was also paid (in this year, ) l , s. d. for his wages and those of his men at arms and archers in the war. [footnote: devon's issues , pp. , .] in he was paid m. [footnote: rymer, old ed. vii, .] in edward iii the king granted john de beverle the manor of rofford in oxfordshire, [footnote: cal. rot. pat. turr. lon., p. . error for bofford?] and the custody of the lands of john de kaynes, defunct, during the minority of his heir. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. ] in edward iii the king granted him the custody of all the lands of walter bygod, chivaler, in essex and norfolk, with marriage of the heir. [footnote: idem , mem. .] he was also in that year granted an annuity of s. d. and the manor of rodbaston in staffordshire. [footnote: idem , mem. , .] the next year, john de beverle received a grant of the reversion to two parts of the manor of godyngdon in oxfordshire and buckinghamshire, and also of the manor of bokenhull in oxfordshire. [footnote: idem , mem. .] he was at that time paying ten pounds yearly for the farm of the manor of godingdon. [footnote: cal. rot. pat. turr. lon., p. .] in edward iii he received a grant of the goods and chattels of thomas de la bere, an outlaw, [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] and also of all the trees cut down in eltham forest. [footnote: idem , mem. .] finally he had a grant of the manor of bikenhull (sic). [footnote: idem , mem. .] in edward iii he was granted certain tenements and rents in london. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in edward iii, he and his wife acquired the manor of pencrych (stafford) from thomas, son of hugo blount, knight, [footnote: c. r., mem. .] and he was granted custody of the lands of john ferrers, knight, with marriage of the heir. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in he was one of the witnesses to edward iii's will. [footnote: test vet., p. .] in he testified against alice perrers before parliament. he said that she took care not to say anything about the matter under dispute before him. (ele soi gardst bien de lui qu'ele ne parla rien en sa presence.) [footnote: rot. parl., p. .] in we find an acknowledgement of one hundred marks which john de beverle had lent to the king for the expeditions over sea, [footnote: cal pat. roll, p. .] and in this year he is said to have been armour-bearer to the king [foornote: dunkin's oxfordshire i, .] (edward iii). in richard ii, he acquired a rent of forty shillings from lands and tenements in buckenhull. [footnote: ms. cal. c. r., p. .] in certain men were imprisoned for a debt of one hundred pounds to john de beverle and joan de bokkyng, [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] and in that year he paid twenty pounds for leave to alienate certain property of six marks rent which he held from the king. in he was retained to serve richard ii and confirmed in his possession of the office of parker of eltham parks, an annuity of ten pounds and the fee farm rent of eighty-one pounds for the manor of hedyngdom. [footnote: al. pat. roll, p. .] in his office of constable of the castle of leeds, the profits of the mills there and the custody of the park there, were exchanged for ten pounds to be deducted yearly from his rent of twenty pounds paid to the king for the manor of tremworth. [footnote: idem, p. .] in john de beverle was dead leaving seven manors and other property. [footnote: cal. inq. p. m. iii, .] in richard ii his wife, amicia, had become the wife of robert bardolf, miles. [footnote: c. r. , mem.] in the index to his froissart, kervyn de lettenhoeve describes john de beverle as "moult grant baron d'angleterre" and refers to a list of chevaliers who were going to portugal in with the master of the order of st. james. [footnote: cf. rymer old ed. vii, .] this was certainly not our john de beverle because the latter was dead in . geffrey stucle the first mention i find of geffrey stucle is in when he had a grant of the bailiwick of cork in ireland made at the request of henry, earl of lancaster. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] this grant was confirmed by one of edward iii--an inspeximus and confirmation of letters patent of maurice, count dessemond, according to which maurice granted the bailiwick of cork to geffrey styeucle at the request of lionel, count of ulster. according to this last document stucle had the office with all its fees and privileges and was to pay for it a rose yearly at the feast of st. john the baptist. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in also a statement is made that stucle is going to brittany on the king's service. in edward iii stucle appears under entirely different circumstances: he is then "vallettus" of the countess of ulster and is paid forty shillings and sixty shillings for attending to certain business of the countess. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , ]. again he is mentioned as "vallettus" of the countess of ulster, staying in london on her affairs, and paid sixty shillings therefor. [footnote: idem, p. , ( ?) mem. .] in edward iii he had a grant--as "vallettus" of the king's household--of ten marks per annum, "for good services to the king," etc. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] evidently then stucle came into the king's household, just as chaucer did, from the household of elizabeth, countess of ulster, and it is to be noted that he received an annuity within a year or a little more, possibly as soon as he shifted to the king's service. in the same year he was sent on a mission of the king's and paid s. d. [footnote: idem, mem. ] in edward iii he was sent on the king's secret business to normandy and paid l , s. d. for his wages. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. ] he was paid ten pounds more in the same year for a mission of the king--possibly the same as the foregoing. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] in edward iii he was sent on the king's business to normandy and paid ten pounds for his wages. [footnote: idem a , mem. .] likewise in the same year he was paid twenty pounds for his wages in going to france and normandy in the diplomatic service of the king--possibly the same as the foregoing. [footnote: idem a , mem. .] in edward iii he was paid ten pounds for going on another journey [footnote: issues p. , mem. .] and l , s. d. for a journey on the king's business to britanny. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. ] in the same year he was paid sixty shillings for his robe. [footnote: idem] in edward iii he was sent to jersey in the company of elizabeth, countess of ulster, [footnote: idem, p , mem. .] and his annuity was increased to twenty marks. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in edward iii stucle was granted, at his own request, custody of all lands and tenements which were formerly the property of richard de la rynere, defunct, during the minority of the heir. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in edward iii he went on a diplomatic mission to the duke of britanny, and was paid l , s. d. therefor. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. ] in edward iii he was granted one tenement and two shops in the parish of st. michael over cornhill, london. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in edward iii he was paid forty pounds for a mission to spain. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. not numbered.] in edward iii he was paid forty pounds for a journey to the prince of aquitain. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in he was given ten marks in addition to his wages for the five voyages which he had made to calais for the king. [footnote: devon's issues, p. .] in that year also he was sent on secret business of the king to nottingham. [footnote: idem.] in edward iii, stucle was sent to flanders with certain letters of privy seal 'directed to various bannerets and knights of the king's retinue who were staying in germany, directing them to prepare themselves to go with john, duke of lancaster, to france on the king's business. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] for this he was paid l , s. d. and he received ten pounds more for a journey to flanders with letters directed to simon, archbishop of canterbury. [footnote: idem , mem. not numbered.] in edward iii he was sent to brugges to report to the council the results of the conference between the ambassadors of the king and the king of france for a treaty of peace. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] in the same year he was granted custody of all the lands and tenements formerly belonging to john dakeneye, chivaler, defunct, with marriage of the heir. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. . georg felbrigg] in edward iii he was paid ten pounds for transacting certain arduous business pertaining to the king in flanders. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in richard ii, stucle was sent to leycester with a letter of private seal directed to john, king of castile and leon, duke of lancaster, certifying to the duke the death of the countess of march and excusing the count of march on that account from his journey to the north. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in the same year he was sent to the north with a letter directed to john of lancaster ordering the latter to come to london to the king's council. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in richard ii he was paid a hundred shillings for a journey to various parts of england to get money for a royal expedition. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] in his grant of an annuity--here stated to be twenty pounds--was confirmed and he was retained in the king's service. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in richard ii it is stated that richard de la panetrie had married his widow; evidently he had not been dead long for the king paid to his widow l , es. d. due to him. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] mention of george felbrig first occurs in edward iii when he was granted an annuity of twenty marks. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in edward iii george felbrigg and william elys were granted the farm of all the customs except those of wool and wool-fells in the town of magne jernemuth for one year. [footnote: idem , mem. .] they seem to have held this farm for a number of years, certainly in and edward iii, by yearly grants and at a rent of twenty-two pounds per annum. [footnote: fine roll , mem, , , mem. ] in he was paid l , s. d. for the expenses of himself his men at arms, and archers in the war. [footnote: devon p. .] in edward iii he was receiving an annuity of twenty pounds, [footnote: devon's issues, p. .] and in the same year he had a grant at farm of the hundred of northerpyngham, and southerpyngham, paying fifty pounds yearly therefor. [footnote: fine roll , mem. .] in edward iii he was granted custody of the priory of tostes at a farm of sixty-three pounds yearly. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in edward iii the bailiff of fees, etc., in norfolk and suffolk was ordered by the duke of lancaster to deliver the lands and tenements late belonging to elizabeth, dame de aspall, to george de felbrigge who had married margaret, daughter of the said elizabeth. [footnote: abstracts and indexes (long room-rec. off.) i, dorso.] in edward iii he was granted a messuage with pertinences in grippewic. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in edward iii he had a grant of the "balliva" of the hundred of rockeford in essex, and also of the custody of haddele castle. [footnote: abb. rot. orig. ii. .] in edward iii he was sent on secret business of the king to john, duke of brittany, in flanders, and paid l , s. d. for his wages for the journey. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in he is said to have been one of the jury that found alice perrers guilty of maintenance [footnote: blomefield's norfolk viii, ff.]; certainly he witnessed against her before parliament. [footnote: rot. parl. p. .] in richard ii he was sent on secret business of the king with john de burle and others to milan; for the voyage he received l , s. d. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in richard ii he was sent to the king of the romans and of bohemia on secret business connected with the marriage of the king, and paid l , s. d. for the journey. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in he and john herlyng acquired a messuage and sixty acres of land. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in richard ii he was paid for a certain voyage to germany l , s. d. and for a voyage on king's secret business to flanders, ten pounds. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , p. , mem, .] in he was granted for life the ten pounds yearly due from him from the issues of the castle of colchester. in this document his services as king's messenger beyond the seas are expressly mentioned. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] he seems to have had custody of the castle of colchester, for when later in the king granted it to robert de veer, he gave instead forty pounds yearly to george felbrigg. [footnote: idem pp. , ] in , richard ii he was granted free warren for certain estates in suffolk. [footnote: cal rot. chart., p. .] in the king granted to george felbrig, whom the king on his entry into scotland had advanced to the rank of knight, forty pounds yearly to enable him to support his estate more honorably. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] he had with him when he was in the king's expedition to scotland eight esquires and bowmen. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in richard ii george de felbrugg was sent to the duke of gueldres at middleburgh to receive his homage on the part of the king; for his expenses on the journey he was paid thirty pounds. [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] in - he was mentioned frequently in the patent rolls as justice of the peace in suffolk. [footnote: cal. pat. roll index.] in richard ii he was paid forty pounds for a journey to the king of the romans, and in richard ii a hundred pounds for the same journey. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , p. , mem. ] in nine grants made by richard ii to him, were confirmed by henry iv. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in a george felbrig married anne, late the wife of robert charles, knight. [footnote: idem, p. .] blomefield gives the following additional information about felbrig. in richard ii he and margery his wife held the manors of wortham and ingham in suffolk. about the same time roger mortimer, earl of march, granted to him and roger mareschall, esquire, the manor and park of standon in hertfordshire, at farm. he was one of the king's protectors in the latter's tenth year, and in richard ii, he was one of the lieutenants in the court of chivalry to try the case of lords morley and lovell. his will was dated february . [footnote: blomefield, viii, pp. ff.] the office of justice of the peace developed in england in the fourteenth century. the main outlines of its growth can be indicated by the statement of a few significant facts. in it was enacted that "good and lawful men" be assigned to keep the peace. in they were given power to return indictments. in one lord and with him three or four of the most worthy of the county, with some learned in the law, were given power to arrest malefactors, to receive indictments against them, and to hear and determine at the king's suit all manner of felonies and trespasses done in the county. in it was directed by statute that the justices should hold sessions four times a year, and, in , that they should be paid four shillings a day during the sessions. [footnote: summarized from maitland's constitutional history and g. e. howard. neb. u. studies, pp. , .] in * richard ii it was enacted that the justices should be "the most efficient knights, esquires and gentlemen of the law" of the county. [footnote: though enacted after chaucer's time as justice, this indicates very nearly a contemporary attitude toward the office.] the justices of a given county were derived from three classes. [footnote: encyclopaedia of laws of england, vol. , p. .] (a) those appointed by being named in the schedule. (the lord chancellor made the appointment, usually relying upon the lord lieutenant, or the custos rotulorum, of the county.) (b) virtute officii--i.e. the lord chancellor, lord president of the privy council, lord privy seal, justices of the supreme court, etc. (c) holders of minor judicial offices, county judges, etc. of those named in the list of justices of the peace for kent in at least four fall under class (b); robert tresilian, robert bealknap, david hannemere, and walter clopton were at that time justices in the king's courts and their names occur (evidently ex officio) in the lists of justices for many of the counties of england. since they very likely never sat with the justices of the peace in kent, they may, for our purposes, be disregarded. we cannot be sure that chaucer ever actually sat on this commission or that he knew personally any one of his fellow justices. consequently there is no intrinsic interest in a study of their individual careers and personalities. but a few notes about them will give us some impression of the type of men with whom chaucer was associating and the importance of his social position. in the fourteenth century the name of the constable of dover and warden of the cinque ports always heads the list of justices in kent. the holder of that office in was simon de burley, one of the most influential men in richard ii's court. this man was not of noble birth. barnes (quoted by kervyn de lettenhoeve) [footnote: froissart xx, .] says that walter burley was so renowned for his learning at oxford that he became the almoner of the queen (philippa (?)) and the tutor of the prince of wales. one of his relatives, simon de burley, was included among the group of young people brought up with the prince, and soon he became the latter's intimate friend, and afterwards one of the tutors of his son, richard ii. he enjoyed the greatest favour under richard ii, and belonged to the group of the king's friends, robert de vere, michael de la pole and nicholas brembre. he had been connected always with the family of richard ii (a fact illustrated by his being named by joan, mother of richard ii, one of the executors of her will, ). [footnote: test vet, p. .] in richard ii confirmed to him--"the king's father's knight"--a grant of a hundred pounds yearly made by the king's father and the custody of kerwerdyn castle. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in the same year he granted de burley the office of constable of windsor castle for life, the abbot of fecampe's manor of sloghtre, [footnote: idem, pp. , , .] rent free, during the war, and the office of master of the falcons. in he confirmed to de burley the custody of the manor of chiltenham (gloucester) and the fee simple of the castle and lordship of lanstephan. [footnote: idem, p. , .] in richard granted him the office of under-chamberlain of the king's household for life, and appointed him surveyor of the lands in south wales in the king's hands during the minority of the heir of edmond mortimer. [footnote: idem, p. .] in the king granted him for life the constableship of dover castle and the wardenship of the cinque ports, and three hundred pounds yearly therefor (and for the maintenance of himself, chaplains, etc.) with provision that he exercise the office himself. [footnote: idem, p. .] in he was attainted of treason with the other favourites of the king and executed. it is reported that people in kent rose in rebellion to [footnote: idem, p. ] demonstrate their loyalty to him. at his death michael de la pole, william wingfield and he possessed together extensive lands, and he himself had some seven manors in kent. [footnote: cal. inq. p. m. iii, , .] the john de cobeham whose name follows that of de burley in the list, was one of the most eminent barons of his day. i shall merely outline a few of the most important features in his career. he came of one of the oldest families in kent. [footnote: ireland's kent v, ff.] his father had been at various times admiral of the king's fleet in the west, justice in kent, and constable of rochester. his mother was joan, daughter of john, lord beauchamp of stoke. in , edward iii john de cobeham served in the wars in france; in edward iii he was ambassador to rome. in richard ii he was a member of the king's council, served later in france with three knights, esquires and men at arms, and was made a banneret. in richard ii he was one of the thirteen lord governours of the realm, appointed to oversee the government of the king. from on he was on many commissions to treat for peace with foreign powers. in he was with the five lords appellant at waltham cross (evidently then he was of the party of gloucester and arundel). he was member of parliament from kent in , and . in he was lieutenant to the constable of england, and in the same year he was given a cup in the earl of arundel's will. [footnote: test. vet., p. .] with the downfall of gloucester he fell out of favour. he died in , leaving extensive possessions ( forty-three items in all) in london, wiltshire, kent and surrey. he married margaret, daughter of hugh courtenay, earl of devonshire. [on cobeham cf. nicolas hist. peerage, and kent. arch. soc. ii, p. .] john clinton came of a prominent kentish family. he was son of john de clinton of maxtoke and ida d'odingsel. [footnote: froissart xxi, pp. ff.] he was in the french and scottish campaigns, was appointed on commissions and was at one time lieutenant of john devereux, warden of the cinque ports. he died in , leaving extensive lands in kent (twenty-six items in all). [footnote: cal. inq. p. m. iii, .] he married margery corbet, of a good kentish family. john devereux was son of william devereux. edward iii attached him to the person of his grandson (richard ii?) and gave him two hundred marks as a pension. [footnote: froissart xxi, p. statham hist. of dover, p. .] he was in spain with the black prince. in he was appointed one of the king's council, [footnote: rymer old ed. vii, .] in constable of leeds castle for life, and in captain of the city of calais. [footnote: idem, p. .] he was on many commissions to treat of peace with france and flanders [footnote: idem, , , .] and from on he was frequently summoned to parliament. in he was one of the council of eleven appointed to govern england. from to (and perhaps longer) he was steward of the king's household. [footnote: rymer old ed. vii, , .] in he was with the lords appellant at waltham cross. [footnote: rot. parl. iii, .] in he succeeded simon de burley as constable of dover and warden of the cinque ports. [footnote: ireland's kent i, .] he died in , a knight of the garter [footnote: beltz, p. .] and the possessor, in right of his wife, of the manor of penshurst, kent. his only other property seems to have been the manor of donyngton in buckinghamshire. [footnote: cal. inq. p. m. iii, .] thomas culpeper came from a great kentish family which at one time could boast of having twelve members bearing the order of knighthood. [footnote: kent. arch. xxi, .] a thomas culpeper was member of parliament for kent in and in other later years. thomas fogg was member of parliament for kent in , , , , . he held lands by knight's service of the lord of ponynges, and came, through right of his wife, into part of the property of warresins de valoynes. in he was constable of the castle of calais. [footnote: rymer iv, .] he was prominent in the wars of the time, especially in naval action. in he went to spain with john of gaunt. [footnote: rymer old ed. vii, .] in he died. [footnote: kent. arch. xviii, p. .] william rikhill was a justice of the king's bench. he may have been in the list for that reason, or perhaps because he was an inhabitant of kent. at any rate he came of a landed family in kent. [footnote: ireland's kent, iv, .] he died in henry iv's reign. john fremingham, son of sir ralph fremingham of lose, was derived from a prominent kentish family. [footnote: idem, iii, . kent arch. xxi, , xxiii, .] he himself is called "chivaler;" was sheriff of kent in and , and a member of parliament in , and . he was executor of the will of william courtenay, archbishop of canterbury. he died henry iv, possessing the manor and advowson of the church of otham, and read court. james de pekham was of another old kentish family which can be traced as far back as richard i. [footnote: ireland's kent iii, . kent arch. soc. xxi, , xxviii, .] his great grandfather possessed the manor of pekham in hadlow (temp. edward i) and the estates had been increased since that time. james pekham was sheriff of kent in and and a member of parliament in , , , . william topclyf was apparently the only man in the list (except chaucer) who did not come from a landed kentish family. he was, however, in and doubtless later, land steward to the archbishop of canterbury. he held a manor in kent, whether as steward of the archbishop or of his own right, i have not been able to find out. [footnote: kent arch. iv, .] thomas brokhill, of saltwood, chivaler, derived from a good kentish family, was sheriff in , , , , , , and . he died in - , leaving no male heirs. [footnote: ireland's kent ii, . kent arch. xxi, , xviii, , .] william brenchesley was lord of the manor of benenden, near dartford, and a justice of the common pleas (in henry iv's time). [footnote: kent arch. v, .] the customs [footnote: atton & holland: the king's customs.] the duties of the collectors of customs were to ensure payment on all wools and leather shipped from their port, to have the wool or leather weighed at the wool-beam and each bale tested and sealed with the government stamp or "coket" seal. the collectors, of whom there were two in every important port, were clerical officers rather than coast guards--their most arduous duty the preparing and balancing of the accounts which had to be written by their own hands. their salary was twenty pounds a year each. the controller, who was intended as a check on the collectors, prepared and presented an independent account to the exchequer. he seems to have had no fixed salary, but the collectors were empowered to pay the controller's salary out of the takings. [footnote: summarized from hubert hall: history of the customs revenue.] the sums thus paid, were however, mostly nominal, (in chaucer's case ten pounds a year) and it is evident that both collectors and controllers were allowed to levy fees. the collectors of the port of london during chaucer's service as controller were: john de bernes and nicholas brembre. brembre and william de walworth. john warde and robert girdelere. warde and richard northbury. - brembre and john philipot. - brembre and john organ. these were in every case prominent citizens and merchants of london, and after , they were members of a clique especially friendly to the king, and inimical to john of gaunt. to gain the right conception of their relations, one must learn something about london politics. i shall follow trevelyan's account [footnote: age of wyclif, pp. ff.] of the factional struggles in the city, which from the documents which he has published and from such evidence as that afforded by the rolls of parliament, is unquestionably the correct one. the aldermen of london were the representatives of the companies (the associations of merchants of different sorts), each company choosing a given number according to its influence and wealth. further in a method of electing the mayor and the sheriffs, was introduced, which consisted in a vote by companies. now the most powerful of these companies was the grocers' which at this time had sixteen aldermen--many more than its nearest competitor. allied with this company were the other companies of merchants dealing in provisions, especially the fishmongers. the chief opponents of this group were the companies of clothing merchants, the mercers, drapers, cordwainers, etc. the grocers' company and its allies stood for the established order of things because they were faring well under it. the mercers and drapers were rebellious and ready to take any opportunity to eject their rivals from power. at this time ( ) john of gaunt's clique in the court, especially lord latimer and richard lyons, had aroused the enmity of the londoners because of their irregular and "grafting" financial operations. [footnote: trevelyan, p. .] the londoners paraded the streets in demonstration against john of gaunt. the latter demanded revenge and gained the deposition of the mayor, adam staple. the londoners rallied and elected nicholas brembre mayor. [footnote: idem, p. .] brembre and his allies defended the londoners vigorously before parliament. naturally then john of gaunt felt a still greater hatred of brembre and his party and was willing to act as patron to their opponents. the latter in turn, eager to gain any aid they could in their struggles, willingly accepted john of gaunt as a friend. this, as clearly as i can make out, is the train of circumstances which brought about an unquestioned condition: john of gaunt's hatred of london and especially of brembre and his party, and his patronage of john of northampton, the chief representative of the clothiers. brembre's chief political allies were sir william walworth, sir john philipot and nicholas exton. these men were very definitely patronised by richard ii in opposition to john northampton, richard northbury and john more. during chaucer's tenure of the office of controller only one certain adherent of the northampton faction acted as collector--richard northbury, who was dropped from the office almost as soon as richard ii came to the throne. the other men with whom chaucer had to deal were the very leaders of the royal faction. further they were the most eminent merchants of their time. in the [footnote: ( ) see robert girdelere, p. .] first half of the fourteenth century the king had been forced to rely upon foreign, especially italian, merchants for financial aids, loans, etc., since no group of englishmen could control sufficient money to aid him in an emergency. [footnote: w. d. chester, chronicles of the customs department, pp. ff.] but in the second half he had at his hand a group of london merchants, powerful enough to meet the sudden financial needs of government. moreover they were picturesque figures-sir william walworth striking down wat tyler in the presence of the peasant-host, sir john philipot fitting out a fleet at his own expense, scouring the channel and finally bringing the dreaded pirate mercer in triumph to london. john de bernes, collector in , was, in , sheriff, in and alderman, of london, and in , , edward iii, mayor.' in he lent the king l , in he was apparently employed in buying for the king's household. [footnote: devon's issues, p. . rymer iii, .] he was dead by , and i have not found out anything more about him. nicholas brembre, collector , , - . see account in d. n. b. brembre was mayor in , - - . he was the political leader of the group of king richard's friends in london. of his public career i shall not treat since that is sufficiently covered elsewhere. to illustrate his financial dealings, the following abstracts of documents are important. in september , the king borrowed l , of brembre, wallworth, philipot and john haddele (grocer, later mayor of london), and certain other merchants, for whom these were attorneys, pledging the crown jewels. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in may this sum was repaid. in , hugh de calvylegh, captain of calais, nicholas brembre and john philipot, in the service of the war, agreed to pay to william von de voorde of bruges, the sum of l , , s. d. as directed by the council, delivered their bond to the king's clerk, and a tally of that amount was placed in the hands of william de wallworth. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in the king granted brembre in discharge of , m. lent by him to the king to discharge a debt to sir bretrucat de lebret, half a mark from the subsidy of each sack of wool and wool-fells passing out of the ports of london and boston, with custody of one part of the coket seal of the latter port, until the loan should be fully paid [footnote: idem, p. .]. in brembre, philipot and walworth were appointed [footnote: riley memorials, pp. , , . gregory's chronicle (camden soc. p. .) on a commission to investigate the finances of the realm--together with the archbishop of york, earl of arundel, etc. this group of men is, indeed, constantly mentioned together; throughout such documents as the patent rolls, where matters of national finance are under consideration, brembre, philipot and walworth, or perhaps two of them, are sure to be mentioned [footnote: it is noticeable that from on john of northampton is never mentioned in the patent rolls in connection with financial operations, loans to the king, etc.]. in the latter part of his career complaints were sent to parliament against him and exton, by the mereers, cordwainers, pounders, sadlers, painters, armourers, pinners, embroiderers, spurriors and blacksmiths--obviously the trades belonging to the then defunct party of john northampton. [footnote: rot. parl. in, ff. .] he was accused in together with de la pole, robert tresilian and other friends of the king of the following: having prevented access by others to the king, misled the king, caused the king to give manors, lands, and other offices to persons of their party and to persons from whom they received gifts or whom they wished to use (such as usk), having caused the king to grant them money, etc. [footnote: rot. parl. iii, .] as is well known brembre was condemned and executed. at his death brembre left extensive estates (entered in the inquisitions) in london and kent. william de walwokth was born about . he was apprenticed to john lovekin, stockfishmonger, mayor of london, , , , . [footnote: woodcock, lives of lord mayors, surrey arch. coll. viii, ff.] he was executor of lovekin's will and seems to have retained a special feeling of loyalty for him, because in he founded a college of a master and nine chaplains to celebrate divine service for the good estate of the king, himself, and margaret his wife, for their souls after death and for that of john lovekin, formerly his master. [footnote: cal. pst. roll, p. .] he was elected mayor of london in and again in . in he and simon de morden lent the king l . on the day of edward ill's death he and john philipot went to the young king, implored his favour for the city of london, and asked him to put a stop to john of gaunt's persecutions. when the commons voted a subsidy to the king for carrying on the war, they expressed distrust of the management of it, and demanded that the funds be intrusted to walworth and philipot, treasurers for the war. in walworth accompanied the boy king at his meeting with the peasant leaders, and he, brembre and philipot were knighted by the king for their bravery on this occasion. he died in . walworth was appointed on many commissions of various sorts and dealt extensively in land. john warde did not bulk so large in london affairs as did the others and consequently i have been able to learn but little about him. he belonged to the grocers' company and consequently without doubt to brembre's faction. [footnote: orridge, citizens of london.] he had been sheriff in and was elected mayor of london in . [footnote: coll. of london cit. (camden soc.) pp. , .] robert girdelere is even more difficult to trace than warde. he was sheriff of london - . [footnote: coll. of london cit. (camden soc,) p. .] i have found reference to a transaction in which robert girdler agreed to buy certain cables and cords [footnote: cal. of letters, city of london, p. .]. consequently he may not have been a dealer in provisions and was perhaps a member of john northampton's party. the last reference that i have found to him is the date of his collectorship, . richard northbury was a leader of john northampton's party. he was a member of the mercer's company. [footnote: cal. rot. pat. turr. lon., p. .] in he was found guilty with john of northampton of sedition, and imprisoned. certain tenements which he held in london were forfeited to the king [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .]. in the king granted him m. a year for clothing and m. a year for victuals, while he was a prisoner in corfe castle [footnote: idem, p. .]. in the commons petitioned the king to annul the decision against him and to restore him his lands, at the same time making similar petitions for john northampton and john more. all three were granted [footnote: rot. parl., p. .]. john philipot is treated in d. n. b. he was apparently a ship owner, and certainly a member of the grocers' company. in he was appointed on a commission to seize forfeited goods for the king. in he was granted license to buy victuals and take them to calais. in he was elected mayor. in sir roger beauchamp, lord chamberlain to the king's household, bequeathed him "my great cup gilt, which the king of navarre gave me," and made him one of the executors of his will. in the same year he contributed largely to fitting out a fleet against the french, hiring a number of ships at his own expense and redeeming a thousand sets of armour and arms which had been pawned. in he was appointed on a commission to treat of peace with the duke of flanders. he died in . john oegsn was alderman of london and sheriff in . [footnote: oal. pat. roll, p. .] i have not been able to discover what company he belonged to. in he was appointed one of the collectors of the tax of two-fifteenths. [footnote: rymer iv, .] in he was appointed one of the collectors of the subsidy of s. from each tun of wine and d. in the pound from the merchandise in the port of london. [footnote: oal. pat. roll, p. .] from these appointments it seems likely that he was friendly to the brembre faction--note also that he succeeded philipot at the latter's death. john de burley john de burley, with whom chaucer in went on a diplomatic mission, was a brother of simon de burley. [footnote: r. mem, .] he was certainly attached personally to the black prince, for in richard ii confirmed to him a grant made by himself, when prince ( ed. iii) confirming a grant of his father the prince of wales ( ed. iii) of l yearly for de burley's services, especially at the battle of nazare where he was the prince's bodyguard. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. * .] in he was appointed captain of calais and commissioned to supervise the fortifications of oderwyk and other places besides calais. [footnote: rymer iii, , .] in he was on a commission to treat for peace with france. [footnote: rymer iii, .] in he was a witness of edward iii's will, [footnote: test. vet. p. .] and stepped out of the position of captain of calais. [footnote: rymer iv, .] in he was granted the constableship of nottingham castle for life. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] (he gave it up in ). [footnote: idem, p. .] in richard ii confirmed to him a grant ( , edward iii) of m. yearly in addition to the l already granted. [footnote: idem, p. .] in , l yearly were granted at his supplication, to his son w. de burley, esquire, "retained to stay with the king." [footnote: idem, p, .] in john de burley, knight of the king's chamber, [footnote: he was also so mentioned in .] was given the custody of sherwood forest. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in he had the king change his grants of l and m. to one of m. and give the latter to his son, john de burley, kt. [footnote: idem, p. .] in he was on a commission to treat for the marriage of richard ii with a daughter of the duke of milan. [footnote: rymer old ed. vii, .] later he was engaged in negotiations for richard's marriage with anne of bohemia. while so employed, he and michael de la pole and gerard del isle were taken prisoners and held for ransom. on this occasion the king sent money for the ransom of the three. [footnote: devon's issues iii, - .] on another occasion he was taken prisoner in germany after having been sent as messenger to the king of bohemia, and the king contributed m. to his ransom. [footnote: issue roll (devon) rich. ii, p. . ] in he gave up the custody of sherwood forest, and also that of nottingham castle. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, pp. , .] in that year and the following he and simon de burley are mentioned in connection with transfers of land. [footnote: idem, p. .] in he was a justice of the peace in hereford. in he was granted for life the custody of the alien priory of wotton waweyn, provided that its value should not exceed l , s. d. yearly, the rent which he was wont to pay for it. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p, .] i find no later mention of him, except the rather doubtful one of his inheriting land from simon de burley (in ). sir edward de berkeley sir edward de berkeley was a knight of the chamber to richard ii. [footnote: rymer iv, .] in he was appointed on a commission to treat for peace with france. [footnote: idem iii, , .] in , richard ii confirmed a grant made by himself when prince ( edward iii) confirming letters patent of his father ( edward iii)--of fifty pounds yearly. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in he is mentioned as going on an expedition with john of gaunt, [footnote: rymer iv, .] and is again appointed on a commission to treat for peace with flanders. [footnote: rymer iv, ] he died richard ii, leaving a manor and some lands in suffolk. [footnote: cal. inq. p. m. iii, .] his will, which is extant, [footnote: test vet., p. .] directs that his body be buried in the church of st. mary carmelites in calais; and bequeathes his "dominion and monastery at hikeling" to "sir john clanbrow" (probably sir john clanvowe), sir thomas de percy sir thomas de percy, with whom chaucer was sent to flanders in , was brother of henry de percy, count of northumberland. [footnote: rymer iv, .] he was with the black prince at bergerath, edward iii. [footnote: dugdale , .] in a grant by edward iii to thomas de percy, "whom the king has retained to stay with him," of m. yearly was confirmed. [footnote: cal. pat. roll,. .] in that year and at many times subsequent he was admiral of the north. [footnote: idem, p. .] in he was appointed with others to treat with the king of scotland, [footnote: rymer iv, .] in to treat with the duke of brittany. [footnote: rymer old. ed. vii, .] from on many pardons were granted at his request. in he was appointed custodian of the castle of brest. in he was on a commission to treat with flanders and france. [footnote: idem, .] in he was sub-chamberlain in the king's household (literally "south chamberlain"). [footnote: idem, ] by he was chamberlain of the household. [footnote: idem, .] in he was made earl of worcester [footnote: dugdale i, .] and appointed with john of gaunt on a commission for redressing violations of the truce. in he was appointed executor of the duchess of gloucester's will. he was beheaded in because of his connexion with the rising of hotspur. he was a knight of the garter. sir william de beauchamp that sir william de beauchamp was a friend to chaucer has been recognized for some time. in may mr. w. d. selby called attention to this connection with chaucer in a short article in the athenaeum. in this article mr. selby gave a few facts about him, gathered professedly from dugdale, but omitted all mention of the curious connection sir william de beauchamp had with the property of the earl of pembroke, for his custodianship of which chaucer was one of the sureties. william de beauchamp was a younger son of thomas, earl of warwick. [footnote: cf. dugdale's baronage i, ff, dugdale antiquities of warwickshire ii, ff.] in edward iii he attended john of gaunt in his expedition into spain. in edward iii he served as a knight in france, in the retinue of john of gaunt, and again in edward iii. in edward iii de beauchamp signed an indenture to serve john of gaunt in peace and in war during his life in consideration of one hundred marks yearly and wages for six horses and four boys. [footnote: register of john, duke of lancaster, vol. . misc. books-rec. off.] he had been connected with john of gaunt's household even earlier, in and . [footnote: same book.] in richard ii he served with edmund de langley, earl of cambridge, in spain with men-at-arms and archers, and in the king's navy at sea under john of gaunt. in richard ii he served again in france. in he was granted for life the custody of feckanham forest and park at a farm of l , s. - / d. from the beginning of his reign, richard ii granted many pardons at the supplication of william de beauchamp. in he was chamberlain of the king's household; in he was granted an annuity of m. [footnote: not l as mr. selby says. see pat. roll , pp. , .] he was regularly on commissions of the peace in warwick, in company with his brother, the earl of warwick. in he and lewis de clifford aided robert de ferrers in acquiring the manor of wemme in fee. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p, .] in he was appointed on a commission to treat with flanders. in he was appointed captain of calais--a position he held until . to return now to one matter in which chaucer is closely connected with william de beauchamp. in the king granted william de beauchamp the custody of the castle and estates of pembroke, in his hands by reason of the minority of the earl of pembroke. the father of the last earl of pembroke, john de hastings, had, by license from the crown, settled all his possessions, in the event of failure of his own issue, except the castle and town of pembroke, upon his cousin william de beauchamp (his mother's sister's son) [footnote: surrey arch. coll. xvh, , .] these lands were in the hands of the king in because john de hastings had died and his son was still a minor; naturally he appointed the next heir custodian of them. but william de beauchamp's management of the estates was certainly not satisfactory and, if the suretyship of chaucer was anything but a form, the poet stood a good chance of losing by it. the first notice we find of beauchamp's unsatisfactory management is in , when a commission was appointed to enquire touching the waste in the possessions of john de hastyngs by william de beauchamp, to whom the king had committed the custody of the land. in the same year we find record of an indenture made between margaret mareschall, countess of norfolk, guardian of john de hastyngs, and the said john, on the one side, and william de beauchamp on the other, whereby the latter agreed to surrender his custody of the estates, and the former in return to free him of liability for the "waste." [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in the king appointed a commission to enquire touching the waste in the lands of the alien priory of kirkeby monachorum, county warwick, in the time of william de beauchamp, knight, farmer thereof. [footnote: idem, p. . i idem, p. .] in we find a "revocation for reasons declared before the king and council in the present parliament, with the assent of the nobles, magnates, etc., of recent letters granting during pleasure to william de beauchamp the custody of the lands, tenements, etc. of john de hastyngs." [footnote: whether these were part of the pembroke holdings or not, i do not know.] in the same year the custody was regranted to john golafre, knight of the king's chamber, at a farm of l (beauchamp had paid l ). [footnote: gal. pat. roll, p. .] in , however, the young earl of pembroke was killed in a tournament, and according to the provisions made by his father, the estates devolved upon william de beauchamp. other heirs contested his rights to them, but he won. a curious story told about his claim, is as follows: "beauchamp invited his learned counsel to his house in paternoster row in the city of london; amongst whom were robert charlton (then a judge), william pinchbek, william brenchesley, and john catesby (all learned lawyers); and after dinner, coming out of his chapel in an angry mood, threw to each of them a piece of gold and said: 'sirs, i desire you forthwith to tell me, whether i have any right and title to hasting's lordships and lands!' whereupon pinchbek stood up (the rest being silent, fearing that he suspected them) and said: 'no man here, nor in england, dare say that you have any right in them, except hastings [footnote: evidently edward hastings, a contesting heir.] quit his claim therein; and should he do it 'being now under age, it would be of no validity.'" (dugdale). in [footnote: according to beltz, p. ]when richard ii was preparing for his assault upon the gloucester faction with which william de beauchamp was evidently, as his brother the earl of warwick was certainly, connected, he tried to remove beauchamp from the office of captain of calais, by messenger. beauchamp refused to leave the office, "saying that he received that charge and trust publicly from the king, in the presence of his nobles, and therefore would not quit it in a private manner" (dugdale). when his successor arrived, beauchamp arrested him, and took him to england. there beauchamp himself was arrested but was soon released. in he was summoned to parliament as baron bergavenny (a title received in connection with the pembroke estates). from - i find reference to grants of land made by him to religious bodies. he seems to have been rather in disfavour in these closing years of richard ii's reign, but under henry iv he received new grants, of the manor of feckenham, rent-free, and of the custody of the castle and county of pembroke. he died henry iv and was buried in black friars, hereford. he married joan, second sister and coheir of thomas fitz alen, earl of arundel. he was a knight of the garter. dugdale prints (in his warwickshire) the wills of william de beauchamp and his wife, remarkable medieval documents. richard forester the name of richard forester is connected with chaucer's first in , when chaucer, about to go abroad on a mission for the king, had letters of attorney under the names of john cower and richard forester, [footnote: life records, no. , p. .] and again in , when a lease for the house over aldgate which chaucer had occupied during his years as controller of the customs in london was made out by the mayor and aldermen to richard forester, citizen of london. [footnote: life records, no. , p. .] various entries with regard to richard forester occur in the public records. whether all of them refer to one man or not, and whether any concerns chaucer's friend, i cannot say. i shall merely present them in order of their occurrence. in edward iii richard forester was appointed custodian and supervisor of the river bank called "la ree de ettemore." [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in he is on the list of esquires of less degree. [footnote: l. r., p. .] in ten pounds were paid out of the exchequer to richard forester, of stanton, who had been sent with six archers to shropshire to carry a certain sum of money from thence to london. [footnote: devon's issues, p. .] later in the same year he received ninety-one pounds, two shillings, seven pence half penny for the expenses of himself, his men at arms and archers in the war. [footnote: idem, p. .] in edward iii our beloved armiger richard forester of stanton was granted custody of the manor of stokelaty in hereford which had belonged to richard rissholm, deceased. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in edward iii, richard la forester de beckele had a grant of ten pounds and one robe per annum as a "vallettus" of the royal chamber. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] in edward iii richard forester was granted custody of the manor of waterpyrye and one messuage in thomele in oxfordshire, and the manor of wormenhale in buckinghamshire, during the minority of the heir. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in richard ii confirmed to richard le forester of beckele, "whom the king has retained to stay with him," his annuity of ten pounds. [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in richard ii the king granted to richard forester and his son lambert custody of the royal manor of bekkele with the hamlet of horton for ten years at a rent of fifty marks per annum. [footnote: fine roll , mem. .] in richard ii forester is referred to as an inhabitant of oxfordshire. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in richard ii richard forester of stanton paid two marks for a confirmation of a grant of edward iii of certain lands in oxfordshire. [footnote: idem , mem. .] in richard ii richard forester, citizen of london, with a group of london mercers acquired some land. [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorm.] again in richard ii he acquired more land, but later assigned it to his associates. [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorm, mem. dorm.] henry scogan with regard to henry scogan i have but few facts which do not appear in professor kittredge's article. [footnote: harvard studies and notes i.] in and richard ii he was a vallettus of simon de burley's. many entries in the issue roll of those years indicate that he was employed to carry money from the exchequer to de burley, and to arrange for the fortification of dover. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. , , , ( entries) p. , mem. , , , , . p. , mem. , . p. , mem. , , .] in richard ii ten pounds were given to henry scoggan, scutifer, at nottingham. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in richard ii henry sooggan of reynham granted to thomas wery and others three pieces of land in tostes, for which they were to pay him a penny yearly. [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorso.] in the same year he and john hollech, chivaler, went on a bond for henry recheford, under penalty of two hundred pounds each, that the latter should do no harm to the gedneys. [footnote: c. r. , mem. dorm.] in richard ii he conveyed a hundred shillings from the exchequer into the king's chamber [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .]--an action which suggests that he was probably connected with the king's court at this time. oto de graunson the only important fact which i have found with regard to de graunson--aside from those mentioned in romania xix--is an indenture made apparently in edward iii, between otz de granson chivaler, and john of lancaster. [footnote: duchy of lancaster registers, no. f, dorm. on de graunson, see note in earl of derby's expeditions (camden soc.) p. .] according to this document de granson agrees to serve the duke in time of peace as well as of war in return for a fee of a hundred marks a year. bukton skeat has supposed the bukton mentioned in chaucer's lenvoy a bukton, to be sir peter bukton of york. there is, however, at least one other possibility. a robert de bukton is mentioned in richard ii as armiger to thomas de percy, [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] with whom it will be remembered chaucer had some three years before been associated in a diplomatic mission. in , and richard ii, robert de bukton, scutifer of thomas de percy, is frequently mentioned in the issue roll as transmitting money from the exchequer to de percy, [footnote: p. , mem. . p. , mem. , , . p. , mem. , p. , mem. . p. , mem. , .] and in one case to louis clifford. [footnote: p. , mem. .] in richard ii, the king inspected and confirmed a patent of queen anne dated richard ii, being a grant for the term of her life to her esquire robert bucton, of a quantity of pasture and wood called "gosewold" in her lordship of eye, "by the yearly service of the rent of a rose." [footnote: cal. pat. roll, p. .] in this was confirmed, [footnote: idem , p. .] and in robert de bukton is mentioned as constable of the castle of eye. [footnote: idem , p. .] robert de bukton was returned to parliament from the county of suffolk in richard ii ( - ), richard ii ( - ), richard ii ( , - ) and henry iv, ( - ). on account of his constant connection with the court, robert de bukton would seem more probably to have been chaucer's bukton, than skeat's candidate. [footnote: on sir peter bukton, see note in scrope-grosvenor roll, ii, - , containing many facts not in skeat.] chaucer's career and his relation to john of gaunt what then is the bearing of all this upon chaucer's career? let us take up the matter point by point. in the first place it is clear that although in a few cases the esquires were connected with important families, in none did any come from a major branch of an important family and in most the derivation is from ordinary stock. chaucer was then associated with a group of men who came from much the same class as himself. [footnote: cf., pp. - above.] secondly it appears that the esquires were frequently the sons of men connected in some way with the court. [footnote: p. .] in this respect also chaucer, was like his associates, for his father, in at least was in the king's service. [footnote: l. r. no. , p. intro. p. xi.] further many of the esquires had served in the household of one of the king's children before becoming members of the king's household. in this respect also chaucer with his service in the duke of clarence's house was like a number of his fellows. the exact nature of chaucer's position in the household it is difficult to discover. dr. furnivall supposed from an entry of may , , the second half yearly payment of chaucer's annuity, that he was first a "vallettus" of the king's chamber. [footnote: l. r. no. , p. .] but it is by no means certain that this is correct. chaucer is called "vallettus" of the king's chamber only once; in all other early references he is described, if at all, as "vallectus hospicii regis." there is, i believe, a difference between these two. as i have already pointed out, [footnote: p. above.] a certain confusion with regard to the use of such phrases undoubtedly exists in the records. as evidence of this confusion we find men called "vallettus" after they have been called "armiger," and sometimes men who are normally called "vallettus camere regis" named as "vallettus hospicii regis." yet if we look up the entries with regard to the men called "valletz de la chambre du roi" in the list of , [footnote: l. r., p. . 'in many cases, of course, they are called merely "vallettus noster," "dileatus vallettus" or "dileatus servitor."] we find that in such records as the patent rolls where _definitely_ characterized, they are generally referred to as "vallettus camere nostre." for example, william gambon is so titled seven times and never as "vallettus hospicii nostri." [footnote: pat. roll , mem. , idem , mem. , , mem. . cal. pat. roll , p. . issues, p. , mem. . c. r. , mem. . pat. roll , mem. .] reginald neuport is called six times "vallettus camere regis." [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. . issues, p. , mem. . p. , mem. . p. , mem. pat. roll , mem. , etc.] john tipet is called the same at least five times, and never by any other title. [footnote: issues a , mem. . p. , mem. . p. , mem. . p. , mem. , etc.] thomas cheyne is called "vallettus camere regis" five times. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. , , mem. , , mem. . cal. rot. pat. turr. lon. p. . abb. rot. orig. ii, .] thomas loveden alone is called "vallettus hospicii regis" twice and "vallettus camere" once. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. . p. , mem. . pat. roll , mem. .] under the circumstances, if chaucer ever was a "vallettus camerae regis," we should expect him to have been so called more than once. it seems rather more likely that his proper position was that of "vallettus hospicii regis" [footnote: the household books, published in the chaucer records, recognize no such classification as "vallettus hospicii regis," pet the records certainly point to the existence of such a classification.] and later of course, "armiger" or "scutifer." this view is of course supported by the fact that in the household lists his name does not appear in as a "vallet de la chambre du roi" or in even near the names of men who had been "valletti" of the king's chamber. further that chaucer's position by was distinctly honourable appears from the fact that his name appears as esquier among a group of men who were not engaged in menial occupations of any kind--as distinguished from the cooks and farriers of the groups called "esquiers survenantz" and "sergeantz des offices parvantz furrures a chaperon." with regard to chaucer's employment as an envoy abroad, it is clear that he was, when so engaged, performing a customary service, that indeed he was one of several who were constantly used in minor missions abroad and that his rank and duties were similar to those of a king's messenger today. [footnote: cf. pp. , above.] likewise the rewards which chaucer received were not extraordinary. practically every esquire of chaucer's rank who remained for any considerable time in the court received an annuity; evidently such pensions were part of the perquisites of the office. a few esquires received a smaller annuity than chaucer's, many received about the same amount, and, many received more. [footnote: cf. p. ff.] similarly the special offices which chaucer held, particularly his controllerships, were not evidences of remarkable favour: other esquires received the same kind of offices and indeed they were apparently regular sinecures for the members of the king's household. [footnote: cf. p. ff.] so also the grant of wardships and forfeited goods can be paralleled in many cases. in two respects chaucer received rather less than the other esquires--he was given no corrody and no grant of land. in one more respect can chaucer's career be paralleled by that of other "esquires"--in that of his marriage. marriages between the esquires of the king and the damsels of the queen were decidedly frequent. [footnote: cf. p. ff.] indeed, it is clear from the study of the careers of the other esquires that, so far as we know, chaucer received no exceptional favours, and that his career was in practically every respect a typical esquire's career. in all this then there is no evidence that chaucer enjoyed the favour of any particular patron. aside from the fact that, like chaucer, some of the esquires had served in the household of one of the king's children before entering the king's, i have been able in no case to find evidence of connection between them and any patron. since chaucer received no more favours than did the average esquire, there is no particular reason to suppose that he had any patron. now let us examine the evidence in favour of his close connection with john of gaunt. we have two pieces of definite evidence of a connection between chaucer and john of gaunt; chaucer's writing (probably shortly after ) of the book of the duchess, and john of gaunt's grant of an annuity of ten pounds in june . the former does not prove anything with regard to a definite relation; such complimentary poems were commonly written for nobles who were not special patrons of the poets; and chaucer in his parlement of foules possibly complimented richard ii in much the same way. in regard to the latter piece of evidence--john of gaunt's grant of an annuity--two things are to be noted, first that john of gaunt had previously given an annuity to philippa chaucer (in ) and, second, that in the grant he gives the cause of making it to chaucer as services rendered by chaucer to the duke and by chaucer's wife to queen philippa and the duke's consort. in the grant to philippa on the other hand no mention is made of geoffrey. this greater particularity in the statement of philippa's services in geoffrey's grant, the fact that philippa was in the duke's household (evidenced by the christmas gifts of silver cups to her) and the fact that nothing else connects chaucer definitely with john of gaunt, make it seem almost certain that the grant of an annuity to chaucer was made merely in order to increase the sum given to philippa. grants of this time which mention the services of both husband and wife are usually made out to both, and undoubtedly in this case the real purpose was to give it to philippa and her husband. on the other hand, if john of gaunt really was "chaucer's great patron," why did he not give the poet employment in his own household? anyone who will run thru the lancashire registers of this time will be struck with the immensity of the duke's income and the regal scale of his household. [footnote: cf. abstracts and indexes i f. ' dorso. warrant to deliver to a damsel for the queen (i.e. john of gaunt's spanish wife) pearls of the largest, of the second sort. warrant to bring him at the savoy all the rolls of accounts of all his recevors general and of his treasurers of war and of the household and other officers of the household, there to be deposited and safely kept. next page-long list of jewels.] surely had he wished to patronize the poet, he could have done so most easily and most surely by giving him some honorable post in his own control. why should he have taken the difficult method of procuring him precarious offices under the king! since the assertions with regard to john of gaunt's ascendancy over chaucer's career have been so common, however, we ought to take up the matter point by point. we have no reason to connect john of gaunt with chaucer's start in the world--his employment in the household of the countess of clarence. we know that chaucer's father had relations with the court and, although merely a merchant, he may very likely have secured chaucer's appointment to the place in the countess's household, as the fathers of simon de burley (not a merchant, but a man of no rank), michael de la pole, (a merchant), john legge, thomas frowyk and thomas hauteyn obtained appointments for their children in the households of the prince of wales and of the king. this was an age when the merchant class was obtaining unusual power and privileges. richard ii, it will be remembered, was called the "londoner's king." it has been shown that john of gaunt visited the countess of clarence at christmas , and it has been suggested that he may have met chaucer then and taken a liking to him. of actual meeting, however, we have no proof. chaucer was in the service of the duke of clarence in october . [footnote: see modern lang. notes march article of dr. samuel moore on the new chaucer item.]; the duchess of clarence died in ; and we learn of him next in the king's household in . the transition from the household of the wife of one of the king's sons to that of the king himself is one which can be paralleled in many cases; we have no need to suppose patronage on the part of the duke of lancaster to account for it. as a matter of fact we have no reason to suppose that john of gaunt knew anything of chaucer at this time. the diplomatic missions, and the grants of annuities and offices were not, as i have shown, evidences of special favour; they were a regular thing in the king's court. we have no reason to suppose that john of gaunt's influence in favour of chaucer was a cause for any of them. further john of gaunt's influence would have been worthless in helping chaucer to become justice of the peace in kent in . this appointment must have been made by the chancellor--michael de la pole--possibly at the recommendation of the lord lieutenant of the county or the custos rotulorum. whether there was a lord lieutenant of kent or not, i do not know. at any rate the constable of dover castle and warden of the cinque ports (at this time simon de burley) held powers in kent similar to those of a lord lieutenant, and he occupies the position of the lord lieutenant in the list of justices of the peace--at the top. both de la pole and de burley were enemies of john of gaunt. even if the appointment was not due to them, we cannot ascribe it to john of gaunt, for i have been able to find no evidence that john of gaunt had influence in kent, or that he controlled any of the other justices. furthermore that chaucer did not owe his place in the customs to the influence of john of gaunt is clear from the fact that the collectorships of customs in london, at any rate, were controlled by the duke's enemies. if they had sufficient power with the king to gain control of those offices, it hardly seems likely that the king would appoint a member of the faction opposed to them to serve with them. it is to be noted also that chaucer on account of the business connections of his family--his father was a vintner and another relative evidently a pepperer--would be more likely to sympathize with the party of brembre than with that of northampton. now we come to a point where nearly all writers on chaucer make inferences in regard to john of gaunt's influence--chaucer's separation from the office of controller of the customs. most writers have said more or less directly that chaucer lost the office because john of gaunt had left england earlier in the same year. the facts themselves show indubitably that chaucer's leaving office was in no respect due to john of gaunt's departure. before discussing this matter, i must say a word about the political situation before and in that year. at the very end of edward iii's reign john of gaunt, who had been the real power since the death of the black prince, became extremely unpopular because of his bad administration of the government and his quarrels with the condoners. this unpopularity continued both in the court and without. under the new king the great duke had little influence; he was not even included in the great council appointed to control the government during the king's minority. further a group of young men, connected with the king, gradually assumed charge of affairs--michael de la pole, robert de vere and others. these men were outright enemies of john of gaunt; according to the stories of the time they even made plots to poison and to stab him. he himself retired from active political life and, apparently, largely because he saw no chance for gaining great power in england, turned his attention to his spanish projects; [footnote: trevelyan's view.] and in he left england for spain. others of the great lords, however, were not content to play a passive role; the brother of john of gaunt, gloucester, as leader, and the earl of arundel and warwick, most prominent followers, were particularly violent in their attacks on the king and his friends. to revert now to chaucer's case: these are the significant facts in their order: end of march, [footnote: or july according to oman.] john of gaunt leaves england. october , gloucester, arundel et al. succeed in ousting michael de la pole and the king's other cabinet officers. december, adam yardley and henry gisors are appointed to chaucer's places in the customs. these dates speak for themselves; they show indubitably that chaucer was not removed from office shortly after john of gaunt's departure; that he was not removed from office (if at all) until the friends of john of gaunt, the men who represented his interests, [footnote: in the following year his son and heir, the earl of derby, was one of the "lord appellants"] had in some measure at least gained the government of the kingdom. a similar condition of affairs appears when chaucer was appointed to his next office in . may, the king regained power--dismissed gloucester's friends from office and appointed his own. july , he made chaucer clerk of his works at westminster. august, he seems to have asked john of gaunt to return to england. november, john of gaunt actually returned. richard ii then appointed chaucer to that place a little over a month after he had regained his authority, and four months before john of gaunt appeared in england. finally we cannot connect john of gaunt in any way with chaucer's departure from the office of clerk of the works in june, . from john of gaunt's return to england in until he seems to have been influential with the king. in he was made duke of aquitaine for life. in he was ambassador to france, in he aided in putting down a revolt in chester. he was in england, apparently, most of this time. certainly the analysis of chaucer's life does not confirm the theory that john of gaunt exercised a ruling influence over his destiny. nor does a study of the connections of his associates indicate his dependency on john of gaunt. his friend william de beauchamp was at a later date certainly a member of the gloucester--warwick faction. but in and , when chaucer was apparently connected with him, beauchamp was a member of the king's household (from on chamberlain of the household), evidently in favour with the king and not a partisan of the lancaster-gloucester faction. further we know that chaucer associated in a business way at least with brembre, philipot and walworth, that he probably knew thomas usk, that the latter admired him, and that in the king's household he was connected with some men like john de beauchamp and john de salesbury who were not friends to john of gaunt. yet toward the end of richard ii's reign we find chaucer connected in some way with john of gaunt's son, and when a few years later that son ascended the throne as henry iv, chaucer received new annuities and aids. the fact then that chaucer was friendly with prominent men in both factions makes it incredible that his fortunes were dependent on those of john of gaunt. one other suggestion-was john of gaunt likely to have had enough interest in poetry to patronize a poet? i have found no evidence that he did patronize other poets or artists of any kind, and the impression of his character which a careful scholar like mr. trevelyan has gained from a study of his career, is not that he was such a man as would be interested in the arts. from all these facts, i do not see how it can be maintained that john of gaunt was chaucer's "great patron." the evidence, so far as i can make out at present, leads one to the conclusion that chaucer must have received his offices and royal annuities from the king rather than from john of gaunt, at times when john of gaunt's influence would have been harmful rather than beneficial, or when john of gaunt was not in england to exercise it. chaucer's relation to richard ii certain recent investigations have suggested that richard ii and his consort anne may have been patrons of chaucer. for this theory the most definite evidence is derived from references to queen anne in several of the poems. the most obvious of these references is that in prologue to l. g. w., version f. . , ; another is the one implied in koch's explanation for the writing of p. f.; and professor lowes finds two more in his interpretations of a line in k. t. (m. l. n. xix, . ) and of one in the troilus. ( p. m. l. a. ; ff) since this investigation has to do wholly with external evidences as to chaucer's life, it is not my business to deal with these references. i would merely point out that they can derive no active support from the facts which we know about chaucer's life, for there is no exceptional feature of his career as an esquire which points toward patronage by anyone. we have no right from the circumstances of his rewards and appointments to suppose that richard even knew that he was a poet, certainly none to suppose that richard enjoyed his poetry and patronized him because of it. to be sure we have certain evidences of richard ii's interest in literature, especially the well known stories of his suggestion to gower that the poet write the confessio amantis, his gift to froissart for the latter's book of poems, and the payment entered in on the issue roll of twenty-eight pounds for the bible written in french, [footnote: devon's translation, p. , is incorrect; the phrase in the document is "lingua gallica." issues p. , mem. .] the romance of the rose and the romances of percevale and gawayn. but those are all; a careful reading of the issue roll for all the years of richard's reign has failed to turn up another entry which would indicate an interest in literature. it is to be noted further that in the entire body of poems left to us by chaucer but a few unmistakable references to the queen occur, and none to the king. if chaucer is compared in this respect with his successors hoccleve and lydgate a marked difference appears. in a single volume of hoccleve before me [footnote: hoccleve's works i, e. e. t. s. .] occur three "balades" to henry v, one to the duke of york, one to the duke of bedford, and one to the lord chancellor. perhaps the striking contrast between this and chaucer's practice is due to different notions as to the function of poetry, perhaps to some other cause, but it exists, and it causes one to feel that, in comparison with hoccleve at least, the internal evidences of patronage in chaucer's poems are slight indeed. finally the fact that chaucer was treated favourably by the government of henry iv would suggest that his personal relations with richard ii had not been very close. some general points although i have objected to some of the inferences drawn by others, nevertheless it seems to me that from the facts viewed in their new relations, some legitimate inferences may be drawn. in the first place it seems almost certain that by chaucer held considerable land in kent. every other man on the list of justices of the peace (with the single possible exception of topclyff) held fairly extensive lands in the county; all except de burley, topclyff and chaucer were of old kentish families. de burley's importance as constable of dover (indeed he undoubtedly held the office of justice ex officio) and topclyffs position as steward of the archbishop of canterbury counterbalanced the fact that they were not of kentish stock. what then of chaucer? he surely must have held a manor and lands of considerable value or he could never have been high enough in the estimation of the landed proprietors to gain the justiceship and even the membership to parliament. now, he apparently did not receive this land by royal grant; consequently it would appear that he must have had it by grant of some great noble or by purchase. in any case we have no record to indicate what land he held or by what tenure he held it. again we do not know what chaucer's income as controller of the customs amounted to. it is apparent, however, that the returns from the office of controller of the greater custom must have been very considerable. if the collectorship of the customs was not a profitable office, it is impossible to see why such men as walworth, philipot, and brembre should have cared to hold it. that the twenty pounds which was their nominal salary was anything like all that they received is unbelievable. to suppose that a man who could fit out a fleet at his own expense and successfully campaign with it against a powerful pirate, should allow himself to be annoyed by so paltry an office is absurd. yet the office was apparently not farmed, and so it seems likely that the income from fees was large and attractive. [footnote: the view of w. d. chester: chronicles of the custom's dept., p. .] to how great an extent chaucer, aside from the ten pounds yearly that he received, shared in the profits, we do not know. from the fact that the king in giving the collectors and the controller extra rewards seems to have rated the latter at about a third of the importance of the former, we might get some hint of the proportion in which he would share in the fees. chaucerian scholars have laid great stress upon the grant of permission to chaucer in to appoint a permanent deputy in his office in the greater customs. they have even assumed that the l. g. w. was dedicated to the queen out of gratitude for her supposed intercession with the king, and the consequent permission, and have used these suppositions as evidence for dating l. g. w. surely too much has been made of this matter. not only have we no evidence whatever to connect queen anne with the granting of the deputyship; we do not have to assume any intercession with the king. [footnote: see forthcoming article: chaucer and the earl of oxford, in modern philology.] we know that esquires who were granted offices in the customs frequently did have deputies in their offices; [footnote: of. cases of john de herlyng, helming leget, john hermesthorpe et al.] probably leave to have a deputy could be had almost for the asking. moreover, the office of controller, if we can judge from the records of chaucer's time (cf. mr. kirk's print in the chaucer society--not yet issued) could not have been a very burdensome one. yet even the provision that chaucer write the records with his own hand was not--in the opinion of the officials of the record office--held to even as early as . the reason for this judgment is that the preserved records are written in a decidedly good chancery hand, a style of writing which only a professional chancery clerk is supposed to have been master of. [footnote: see tales of the canterbury pilgrims, stokes & co., intro., by furnivall, p. x note.] consequently either chaucer must have been a regular chancery clerk, or he employed a clerk to write up the records. if he did the latter--as seems most likely--it is hard to see what work of importance can have been left to himself. why then should he care for a permanent deputy? if we look at the circumstances of his life in , we may discover a possible reason. in that year, he first appears prominently in connection with kent. the sequence of events is: february, --deputy appointed. october, -justice of the peace in kent. june, --justice of the peace in kent. august, --member of parliament for kent. he must have been out of london at latest some time early in , and he may have been occupied with the purchase and management of whatever land he possessed in kent, and with the politics of that county. consequently, he may have desired to have a recognized deputy in the office who would relieve him of all official responsibility. one can see no reason why he should have felt particularly grateful for the grant of this merely technical freedom. furthermore we can have no knowledge, with our present information alone, of why chaucer ceased to be controller at the end of . i have already shown that this could not have been due to john of gaunt's absence from england. it is almost equally certain that it was not due to the fact that chaucer was a partisan of the king or that the council of thirteen was instructed to inquire into the conduct of the king's offices and to initiate reforms. [footnote: as colton in his book on chaucer's england assumes, pp. - .] the proof of those statements is this: so far as we know chaucer's only fault in the conduct of these offices was the fact that he "performed" them by deputy; now, although the two offices were granted in december to adam yardley [footnote: adam yard&y, clericus, was in joined with a sergeant at arms to take and arrest mariners for the passage of the bishop of norwich across the channel. this would suggest that he was connected in some way with the court, since such duties were commonly assigned to esquires and clerks of the court.]--and henry gisorz, [footnote: henry gisors seems to have come from an eminent london family. (riley memorials pp. , . ancient deeds; a . maitland history of london, p. ). in richard ii and richard ii he was concerned with john hermesthorpe in certain transfers of land in london. (ancient deeds; b , ).] the controllership of the greater custom was re-granted scarcely six months later to john hermesthorpe [footnote: john hermesthorpe was a very much more important person. he was for some years one of the chamberlains of the king's exchequer, probably as early as when on one day he conveyed payments of their annuities to philippa chaucer and three other damsels of the queen. he was likewise ft priest, for a time confessor to the king, and holder of various ecclesiastical preferments, in london and elsewhere. he was in particular master of the hospital of st. katherine from till a few years before his death in . the fact that he was in favour with the king and that he was allowed to exercise the office by deputy, makes untenable the supposition that chaucer was dismissed because he was a friend to the king, or because he did not actually conduct the office himself. (devon's issues, p. , cal. pat. roll , p. . full statement of ecclesiastical offices in bibliotheca topographies brittanica ii, .)] (july , ) and with that very grant he was empowered to exercise the office by deputy. furthermore henry gisorz, who succeeded chaucer in the controllership of the petty customs, was appointed by chaucer as his deputy, in richard ii [footnote: c. r. , mem. . cal. pat. roll, p. .] in that office. this office was re-granted september , to robert kesteven. now in the case of the controllership of the greater customs, it seems evident that adam yardeley was merely put into the office as a stop-gap. note that he was not considered of sufficient importance to be given another grant in to compensate him for the loss of the office. and similarly in that of the lesser customs, it seems clear that gisors, chaucer's deputy in the office, was appointed temporarily to the office, on the departure of chaucer, and deprived of it again as soon as the king found some one to whom he wished to give a sinecure. surely, if one may be allowed to draw inferences from facts, it seems most likely that chaucer resigned the offices either to take up some work not now known to us, or to have leisure after more than ten years' occupation in office and missions, and that on his resignation the king made merely temporary appointments and later filled the offices according to his pleasure. the theory that chaucer's surrender of his annuity indicates any extraordinary condition or disfavour on the part of his patrons is likewise not supported by the facts. in the introduction to the chaucer records, mr. kirk writes: "it may be asserted without fear of contradiction, that it was a most unusual thing for any man to surrender a pension, and for the king to grant it to someone else. lands and tenements, or offices, were frequently surrendered in this way, but not pensions." [footnote: p. xxxvi.] surely mr. kirk's statement is too strong, for it is easy to find plenty of examples of transfers of annuity quite, analogous to chaucer's. for example, in edward iii a grant of ten marks yearly to john gateneys was, with his consent, taken from him and given to thomas de fysshebone. [footnote: pat. roll , mem. .] later an annuity held by john de stone, a valet, was transferred by his request to peter de bruge. [footnote: idem , mem. .] other examples are a transfer of an annuity from hugh ferrour to john spencer at the request of the former; [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] from t. de laleham to john stapenhull--at request of the former [footnote: idem, p. .]--from richard des armes to john andrews--"at supplication" of richard [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p, , , p. .]--from john roose to roger lestrange--granted by the former, [footnote: pat. roll , pp. . .]--from peter de saneto paulo to john de ilerlyng--made by the former and confirmed by the king. [footnote: cal. pat. roll , p. .] doubtless many other examples could be found since i have not attempted to do more than note the cases that fell under my eye. apparently the sale of annuities was quite as ordinary and recognized a practice as that of offices or lands. [footnote: john scalby, to whom chaucer's annuity was granted, seems to have been an esquire in the king's household. the first record of him is a grant for life to john de scalby of the forestership and custody of the forest of parkhurst and odepark, isle of wight ( ). in john de scalby the elder was on a commission in east riding (yorkshire). in richard ii john scalby, esquire of the bishop of sarum, borrowed twenty shillings from the exchequer. in richard ii he and his wife mathilda borrowed l , s. d. i. e. the forty marks of his annuity, from the exchequer. in the king granted to his esquires richard cardemewe and john de scalby the goods and chattels of a certain outlaw, to the value of thirty-seven pounds]. in richard h john scalby, soutifer, was sent from lichfield to conway on secret business of the king, and was paid sixteen, shillings eight pence for his expenses. in henry iv confirmed the grant of forty marks a year to john scalby. (cal. pat. roll, , p. . idem p. . issues, p. , mem. . idem, p. , mem. . cal. pat. roll, , p, . issues, p. , mem. . cal. pat. roll , p. ).] that chaucer was out of favour from on, and in financial trouble is again difficult to establish. mr. kirk has shown that his "borrowings" at the exchequer, in those years, were for the most part no borrowings at all but simply a device for getting money that was due him. [footnote: l. r. pp. xlv, xlvi.] furthermore, many examples of the drawing of money "de prestito" from the exchequer may be found in the issue roll. in richard ii philippa duchess of ireland drew l , es. d. in this way. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. .] in the same year bdmond rose borrowed money from the exchequer. [footnote: idem.] as shown above, john scalby twice drew money in advance in this way. john herlyng, who in chaucer's time, was usher of the chamber, borrowed seven pounds four pence in edward iii, repaying it later; [footnote: idem, p. , mem. .] and in edward iii drew forty pounds in the same way. [footnote: issues, p. , mem. . on herlyng's financial position see p. above.] so hosts of examples could be collected from the issue roll, of such "borrowings." certainly they do not indicate that the "borrowers" were financially insolvent. moreover none of the other facts which we have, warrants us in assuming that chaucer was pressed for money and out of favour. in january he was granted ten pounds for good service rendered in this year now present, i.e. apparently the later part of --the year following his "dismissal." in addition he was in granted another annuity of twenty pounds. in view of these facts it would seem that the only definite evidence of chaucer's poverty was the action for debt of l . s. d. in , but the circumstances connected with it--the king's letters of protection and the sheriffs inability to find chaucer--are so remarkable that we cannot draw certain inferences from it. [footnote: see kirk l. r., p. xlvii f.] looking at all the facts, then, we must admit that they do not form any proper basis for most of the assertions that have been made. they do not constitute even the suggestion of proof that, when chaucer lost his controllerships and gave up his annuity, he was out of favour with the king, that he was soon in dire financial straits, and that when again in he lost the clerkship of the works, he was out of favour and pressed for money. if we wish to guess at the reasons why chaucer gave up his offices and his pension, we can find plenty of sufficient motives. he may have left the offices for several reasons; he had held the controllership of the customs of wool for twelve years, a long time for the holding of such an office in those days; he may therefore have left because he was tired of them. he may have left them because some one had given him something better-we know, for example, that in the year after he left the clerkship of the works he was employed in some way by the king; so in the earlier case he may have received some other office or employment the record of which has not come down to us. from november until november we know that richard ii was scouring the midlands trying to gather a force with which to oppose gloucester; he may have employed chaucer as a secret messenger throughout that year. as to the annuity, chaucer may have surrendered it because he could get a good price for it and wanted a large sum of money for some purpose, perhaps to buy land or improve it. or his surrender of the annuity may have been made by arrangement with the king, who may have wished to give an annuity to a comparatively new esquire, and who may have recompensed chaucer in some other way. every fact that we have would fit into the theory that chaucer led a prosperous and important life (in a business and financial way) from to the end of his life. certainly he must have received a large amount of money in that time; we have no evidence of his having lost any; we know of nothing in his character which would lead us to suppose him a spendthrift or inefficient in financial affairs. i do not wish to maintain that he was always prosperous, but only that the facts do not warrant us in assuming that he was constantly on the verge of ruin in the years when, so far as we know, he held no office. in connection with the piers plowman controversy, i have been struck with mr. jusserand's insistence that chaucer did not touch upon social or political matters in his poems. that was, as mr. manly has indicated, very probably due to a theory of the proper subject matter of poetry-an idea current in his time and enunciated by alan cliartier most distinctly. but back of that may have been in chaucer's case certain peculiar traits of character. chaucer was in direct connection with the court and with the city at the time when political enmity between two main factions was very bitter-so bitter that in it led to the killing of simon de burley and sir nicholas brembre as well as less-known men like beauchamp and salesbury and berners, and to the flight of men like michael de la pole and robert de vere, and again in led to the execution of the earl of arundel, the murder of gloucester, and almost to the murder of the earl of warwick. chaucer was in daily contact with men connected with one faction or the other. what was his attitude? what party did he follow? i have tried to suppose that he was a member of the gloucester or lancaster faction but i have found facts such as his retention by richard as controller of the customs from - on, and his subsequent appointment to the clerkship of the works, that could scarcely have been brought about by lancastrian influence. then i have tried to use as a hypothesis the conception that he was a partisan of the king. but i have not been able to reconcile with that idea the fact that he had the grant of the annuity from john of gaunt, that henry iv in the year of his accession granted him an extra annuity of marks in addition to the l which he confirmed to him, and that in or he seems to have been in the employment of either john of gaunt or henry, his son. consequently it seems to me that chaucer can not have been active in politics. at the very time when factional strife was waging about him he must have kept practically free from both parties. he seems to have had friends in both camps, though by far the greater number were in that of the king: oto de graunson-a member of john, of gaunt's household-and in later years apparently henry of derby, represent the lancastrian side; on the other hand, louis clifford, john clanvowe, john burley--men apparently attached to the black prince, his wife and his son,--brembre and philipot with whom he must have been on fairly good terms, and probably even thomas usk, were men strongly opposed to john of gaunt. too many things connect chaucer with both parties to make his identification with either possible. the reasons why chaucer did not dabble pronouncedly in politics may have been various--a clear perception that such was the only safe course for him--an entire indifference and lack of understanding of politics--or what you will. at any rate his connection with both parties is certainly in consonance with the exclusion from his poetry of political matter of the kind which appears for example in cower. index of names almannia, henricus, (almaigne), archebald, william, archer, agnes, archer, roger, alexandra de la mote, wife of, armes, richard des. see, careswell, richard de, barbour, reynold (le), bardolf, robert, bealknap, robert, beauchamp, john, joan, wife of, beauchamp, sir william de, berkeley, sir edward de, bernes, john de, beverle, john de, ahnicia, wife of, blacomore, william, bokenham, simond de, see bukenham, matilda gerounde, wife of, bonyngton, roger, brembre, nicholas, brenchesley, william, brokhill, thomas, bukenham, simon, bukton, burele, william de, (burley), burgh, simon, burley, sir john de, burley, simon de, byker, patrick, john, william, cambridge, see edmund, count of, careswell, richard, careu, nicholas, the elder, the younger, cat, john, chambre, griffith de la, cheyne, hugh, joan, wife of, roger, thomas, john, william, chippenham, walter, clanvowe, sir john, (or clanbrowe), clarence, see lionel, countess of, see elizabeth, countess of ulster. clebury, roger, clifford, lewis de, clinton, john, clopton, walter, clopton, william, cobeham, john de, conyngsby, john de, corby, robert de, alice, wife of, cornewaill, piers de, culpeper, thomas, dabrichecourt, collard, or, nicholas, elizabeth, wife of, devereux, john edward, the black prince elizabeth, countess of ulster felbrigge, george margaret, wife of anne, wife of ferrers, robert de elizabeth, wife of ferrour, roger, see bonyngton, roger fogg, thomas forester, richard foxle, thomas fremingham, john frowick, thomas gambon, william girdelere, robert gisors, henry goderik, john gosedene, john graunson, oto de hannemere, david hauberk, laurence hauteyn, thomas herlyng, john de hermesthorpe, john hertfordyngbury, thomas irlonde, richard isabella, wife of ingelram de courcy joce, john john of gaunt knyveton, rauf de lancaster, see john of gaunt larderer, robert see maghfeld, robert. leche, richard see irlonde, richard. leget, helmyng edmund, count of cambridge alice, wife of legge, john erchedeakne, raulyn agnes, wife of lionel, duke of clarence loath, robert joan, wife of loveden, thomas lyngeyn, hugh agatha, wife of maghfeld, robert mareschall, roger markham, richard narrett, hanyn neuport, reginald northbury, richard northrilgg, john olney, john stephanetta, wife of organ, john padbury, john pekham, james de percy, thomas de philipot, john pole, michael de la prage, nicholas preston, piers alice, wife of richard ii rikhill, william risceby, william de romesey, john de margaret, wife of romylowe, stephen roos, john rose, esmon agnes archer, wife of salesbury, john de johanna, wife of scalby, john, scogan, henry, souch, robert la, see zouche, spigurnell, thomas, katherine, wife of, stanes, thomas de, strelley, hugh, (straule), strete, william, joan wife of stucle, geoffrey, (styuecle), talbot, gilbert tettesworth, edmond de, thorpe, johan de, tichemerssh, johan, see tyschemerssh mabel, wife of tipet, john, topclyf, william, torperle, richard, margaret, wife of, tresihan, robert, tyehemerssh, john de, see tichemerssh tyndale, andrew, ursewyk, robert, usk, thomas, vere, robert de, vynour, robert, waffrer, richard, see markham, richard. wake, hugh, joan wife of walssh, wauter, walworth, warde, john, wbifrors, walter wyght, walter yardley, adam, ybernia, cornelius de, york, william zouche, robert la, see souch. transcriber's note: a few typographical errors have been corrected: they are listed at the end of the text. * * * * * in this text [gh] represents the middle english letter "yogh", which appears similar to the numeral . [=a] signifies "a macron", and so forth. * * * * * chaucerian and other pieces _edited, from numerous manuscripts_ by the rev. walter w. skeat, litt.d., d.c.l., ll.d., ph.d. elrington and bosworth professor of anglo-saxon and fellow of christ's college, cambridge being a supplement to the complete works of geoffrey chaucer (oxford, in six volumes, ) * * * * * * * 'and yit ye shul han better loos, right in dispyt of alle your foos, than worthy is; and that anoon.' _hous of fame, - ._ oxford at the clarendon press m dccc xcvii * * * * * oxford printed at the clarendon press by horace hart, m.a., printer to the university * * * * * contents. introduction.--§ . works appended to those of chaucer in various editions. § . thynne's collection in . _a praise of women._ _the lamentation of mary magdalen._ _the remedy of love._ § . other non-chaucerian pieces. _the craft of lovers._ _a balade._ _the ten commandments of love._ _the nine ladies worthy._ _virelai._ _the judgement of paris._ _a balade pleasaunte._ _another balade._ _the court of love._ § . additions by speght. _chaucer's dream._ _eight goodly questions._ § . editions and mss. consulted. § . authorities for the pieces here printed. § . i. the testament of love. § . the acrostic found in it. name of the author. § . fate of thomas usk. § . idea of the work. § . the author's plagiarisms from chaucer. § . how he stole a passage from the house of fame. § . borrowings from troilus and piers plowman. § . the author's inaccuracies. § . the title; and the meaning of margaret. § . plan of the work. § . outline of book i. § . outline of book ii. § . outline of book iii. § . ii. the plowmans tale. § . never supposed to be chaucer's. § . written by the author of the ploughmans crede. § . iii. jack upland. § . date, a.d. . § . traces of two texts. § . not originally written in alliterative verse. § . iv. the praise of peace. by john gower. § . the trentham ms. § . date, a.d. . § . v. the letter of cupid. by thomas hoccleve. § . vi. two balades. by thomas hoccleve. § . vii. a moral balade. by henry scogan. date, about . § . the supper at the vintry. § . viii. the complaint of the black knight. by john lydgate. § . his quotations from chaucer's version of the romaunt of the rose. date, about . § . ix. the flour of curtesye. by john lydgate. date, about . § . x. a balade in commendation of our lady. by john lydgate. § . a new stanza and a new ms. § . xi. to my soverain lady. by john lydgate. § . xii. ballad of good counsel. by john lydgate. § . xiii. beware of doubleness. by john lydgate. § . xiv. a balade: warning men, &c. by john lydgate. § . xv. three sayings. by john lydgate. § . xvi. la belle dame sans mercy. by sir richard ros. date, about . § . apparently in the leicestershire dialect. § . alan chartier. § . thynne's text and the mss. § . xvii. the testament of cresseid. by robert henryson. date, about . § . xviii. the cuckoo and the nightingale. probably by sir thomas clanvowe. § . the queen at woodstock; about a.d. . § . clanvowe's excessive use of the final _-e_. § . his partiality for 'headless' lines. § . milton's sonnet to the nightingale. § . xix. envoy to alison. not by clanvowe. § . xx. the flower and the leaf. by the authoress of the assembly of ladies. § . the former is the earlier poem. neither of them is by chaucer. § . variations from chaucer's usages. § . examination of the rimes. § . change in pronunciation. § . gower on the flower and the leaf. § . xxi. the assembly of ladies. by the authoress of the flower and the leaf. § . ordering of a medieval household. § . xxii. a goodly balade. by john lydgate. imperfect. § . xxiii. go forth, king. by john lydgate. § . _duodecim abusiones._ § . xxiv. the court of love. first printed in . § . tyrwhitt's plan for a glossary to the canterbury tales. § . moxon's edition of chaucer; establishing an erroneous canon of chaucer's works. § . how to draw up such a canon correctly. § . the court of love discussed. § . the trinity ms. and the language. § . artificiality of the archaisms affected. § . examination of the rimes. § . comparison with chaucerian english. § . the courts of love. § . pieces numbered xxv-xxix. § . twelve authors (at least) distinguished in the present volume. § . there are probably four more. § . improvements in the present page edition ix i. thomas usk: the testament of love. book i: prologue and chapters i-x book ii: chapters i-xiv book iii: chapters i-ix ii. the plowmans tale iii. jack upland iv. john gower: the praise of peace v. thomas hoccleve: the letter of cupid vi. the same: to the kinges most noble grace to the lordes and knightes of the garter vii. henry scogan: a moral balade viii. john lydgate: the complaint of the black knight; or, the complaint of a loveres lyfe ix. the same: the flour of curtesye x. the same: a balade; in commendation of our lady xi. the same: to my soverain lady xii. the same: ballad of good counsel xiii. the same: beware of doubleness xiv. the same: a balade: warning men to beware of deceitful women xv. the same: three sayings xvi. sir richard ros: la belle dame sans mercy xvii. robert henryson: the testament of cresseid xviii. the cuckoo and the nightingale; or, the book of cupid, god of love. (by clanvowe) xix. an envoy to alison xx. the flower and the leaf (by a lady) xxi. the assembly of ladies (by the same) xxii. a goodly balade. (by john lydgate) xxiii. go forth, king. (by john lydgate) xxiv. the court of love xxv. a virelai xxvi. prosperity. (by john walton) xxvii. leaulte vault richesse xxviii. sayings printed by caxton xxix. balade in praise of chaucer notes to the foregoing pieces glossarial index index of names index to some subjects explained in the notes * * * * * errata and addenda p. , l. . _for_ conuersion _read_ conversion. p. , l. . mr. bradley suggests that _maistresse_ is a misprint of thynne's for _maistres secrè_, i.e. master's secret; alluding to john of northampton. p. , l. . _for_ may it be sayd in that thinge 'this man thou demest, _read_ may it be sayd, 'in that thinge this man thou demest, p. , l. . _for_ in sacke, sowed with wolle _perhaps read_ in sacke sowed, with wolle. p. , ll. , . mr. bradley suggests that 'caynes' and 'cayn' are thynne's misprints for 'cames' and 'cam'; where _cam_ (misread as _cain_) means _ham_, for which the vulgate has _cham_. p. , l. . _insert a hyphen in_ gold-mastling. p. , l. . _for_ punishments _read_ punishëments. (_see_ note.) p. , l. . _for_ [ful] _read_ [not]. (_see_ note.) p. , l. . end the line with a semicolon. p. , l. . _insert a mark of interrogation after_ speketh of. p. , l. . _for_ request [the] _read_ requestë. (_see_ note.) p. , l. . _for_ men _perhaps read_ pees. (_see_ note.) p. , l. . _for_ debated _read_ delated. (_see_ note.) p. ; footnotes, l. . _for_ _read_ . p. , l. . _for_ tha _read_ that. p. ; note to l. . see also p. pl. b. xiii. , . p. ; note to l. . for fuller details, see the introduction. p. ; note to l. . chaucer's astrolabe was not written till , after usk's death. p. ; note to ch. xi. l. . on the subject of grace, see bk. iii. ch. . p. ; note to l. . _for_ taken from _read_ compare. * * * * * introduction § . the following pieces are selected, as being the most important, from among the very numerous ones which have been appended to chaucer's works in various editions. i use the word 'appended' advisedly. it is not true that these works were all attributed to chaucer in the black-letter editions. the praise of peace was marked as gower's in thynne's first edition of . another piece in that edition is attributed to scogan. the letter of cupid is expressly dated , though chaucer died in . the flower of curtesye contains the words 'chaucer is dede'; and the testament of cresseid contains a remark which, in modern english, would run thus--'who knows if all that chaucer wrote is true?' those who, through ignorance or negligence, regard thynne's edition of chaucer as containing 'works attributed to chaucer' make a great mistake; and even if the mistake be excused on the ground that it has been very generally and very frequently made, this does not lessen its magnitude. the title of thynne's book is very instructive, and really runs thus:--'the workes of geffray chaucer newly printed, with dyuers workes which were neuer in print before, &c.' this is strictly and literally true; for it contains such works of chaucer's as had previously been printed by caxton, wynkyn de worde, and julian notary (see vol. i. p. ), together with 'dyuers workes [_of various authors_] which were neuer in print before.' which is the simple solution of the whole matter, as far as this edition is concerned. the same remarks apply to the second edition in , and the third, printed about . but stowe, in , altered the title so as to give it a new meaning. the title-page of his edition runs thus:--'the woorkes of geffrey chaucer, newly printed with diuers addicions which were neuer in printe before.' here the authorship of chaucer was, _for the first time_, practically claimed for the whole of thynne's volume. at the same time, stowe did not really mean what he seems to say, for it was he who first added the words--'made by ihon lidgate'--to the title of 'the flower of curtesie,' and who first assigned a title (ascribing the poem to _dan ihon lidgat_) to the poem beginning 'consider wel'; see no. (vol. i. p. ). § . it is clear that thynne's intention was to print a collection of poems, including all he could find of chaucer and anything else of a similar character that he could lay his hands on[ ]. in other words, the collection was, from the beginning, a collection of the works of chaucer _and other writers_; and this fact was in no way modified by the adoption by stowe and speght of misleading titles that actually assigned to chaucer all the poems in the volume! see further, as to this subject, in the discussion of the court of love below. the number of pieces appended, at various times, to chaucer's works are so numerous that i have been obliged to restrict myself to giving a selection of them only. of the non-chaucerian pieces printed by thynne in , i have included all but three. the rejected pieces are those numbered , , and in the list given at p. of vol. i. they are all poor and uninteresting, but i add a few words of description. . _a praise of women._ noticed in vol. i. p. . though decisively rejected by tyrwhitt, and excluded from moxon's reprint, it was revived (for no good reason) by bell, and consequently appeared in the aldine edition, which was founded on bell's. it enumerates the merits of womankind, and condemns the slanders of men concerning them. we ought to worship all women out of reverence for the queen of heaven, and we shall do well to pray to our lady to bring us to the heaven in which she and all good women will be found. thynne is not the sole authority for this poem, as it occurs also (in a scottish dress) in the bannatyne ms., fol. . the whole of this ms. (written in ) was printed for the hunterian club in - ; see p. of that edition. . _the lamentation of mary magdalen._ noticed in vol. i. p. . this lugubrious piece was probably the wail of a nun, who had no book but a vulgate version of the bible, from which all her quotations are taken. it bears no resemblance to any work by chaucer, nor to any of the pieces in the present volume. it consists of seven-line stanzas. the metre resembles lydgate's, but the final _-e_ is hardly ever used. bell's text is not taken from thynne, but from some later and inferior reprint of it. for this poem, thynne's first edition is the sole authority. . _the remedy of love._ noticed in vol. i. p. . it appears that the 'remedy of love' is to be found in a consideration of the wicked ways of women. twelve whole stanzas are taken up with a metrical translation of one of the chapters in the book of proverbs. the author refers us to 'the fifth chapter,' but he is wrong. he means chapter vii, verses - . he also quotes from ecclesiasticus, ix. , and xxv. . nos. , , (vol. i. p. ) are not found in thynne, but were first printed by stowe. i give them below, at p. . the first two stanzas are lydgate's; and probably the third is his also. it is no great matter. no. (vol. i. p. ) was also first printed by stowe. to save words, i have printed it below, at p. , from the original ms. § . i now consider the non-chaucerian pieces in part ii. of stowe's edition (see vol. i. p. ). of these, nos. , , , and are here reprinted. nos. , , , , , , , , and were all taken by stowe from ms. trin. r. . . perhaps they are sufficiently noticed in vol. i. p. , as they present few points of interest. however, i enumerate them, adding a few remarks. no. . _the craft of lovers._ in seven-line stanzas; lines. besides the copy in the trin. ms., there are copies (almost duplicates) in mss. addit. , fol. , back (p. ), and harl. , fol. (now called ). dated in the trin. ms., but in the other two. the first line ought to run:--'to moralise, who list these ballets sewe'; but it is clear that some one added the words 'a similitude' in the margin, and that this remark was afterwards incorporated in the text. hence the first line, in the latter mss., stands:--'to moralise a similitude who list these balettis sewe'; which is more than enough for a line of five accents. after two introductory stanzas, the poem becomes a dialogue, in alternate stanzas, between a wooer, named _cupido_, and a lass, named _diana_[ ]; the result of which is successful. this may be compared with la belle dame sans merci, and with the nut-brown maid. the twenty-third stanza forms the author's _conclusio_, which is followed by an envoy in the addit. ms., and in the harl. ms. only. the same mss. _seem_ to superadd two more stanzas; but they really belong to another piece. no. . taken by stowe from ms. trin. r. . , fol. , back. _a balade._ in seven-line stanzas; lines. begins--'of their nature they greatly them delite'; i.e. women are by nature hypocrites; they like kissing live images rather than shrines. so i advise young men to take warning: 'beware alwaye, the blind eateth many [a] flye'; a line which is quoted from lydgate's ballad printed at p. . the author then prays god to keep the fly out of his dish; and ends by congratulating himself on being anonymous, because women would else blame him. no. . _the ten commandments of love_; from trin. ms., fol. . also in ms. fairfax . begins:--'certes, ferre extendeth yet my reason.' in stanzas of seven-lines; the last two form the envoy. after two introductory stanzas, the author gives the ladies their ten commandments. they are, it appears, to exhibit faith, entencion, discrecion, patience, secretnesse, prudence, perseverance, pity, measure [moderation], and mercy. in the envoy, the author says, truly enough, that he is devoid of cunning, experience, manner of enditing, reason, and eloquence; and that he is 'a man unknown.' no. . _the nine ladies worthy._ in seven-line stanzas, one stanza for each lady. begins: 'profulgent in preciousnes, o sinope the quene.' only remarkable for the curious selection made. the nine ladies are: ( ) sinope, daughter of marsepia, queen of the amazons; see orosius, hist. i. ; ( ) hippolyta, the amazon, wife of theseus; ( ) deipyle, daughter of adrastus, wife of tydeus; ( ) teuta, queen of the illyrians; see note to c. t., f (vol. v. p. ); ( ) penthesilea the amazon, slain by achilles before troy; ( ) queen tomyris, who slew cyrus in battle, b.c. ; ( ) lampeto the amazon, sister of marsepia, and aunt of sinope; ( ) semiramis of babylon; ( ) menalippe or melanippe, sister of antiope, queen of the amazons, taken captive by hercules, according to justinus, ii. . . most of these queens are mentioned by orosius, i. , ii. , ii. ; see also higden's polychronicon, bk. ii. chapters , , , and bk. iii. c. . from the trin. ms., fol. , back. [no. . _virelai._ printed below, at p. .] no. . _a ballade._ begins:--'in the season of feuerere when it was full colde.' in seven-line stanzas. in praise of the daisy. very poor. from the trin. ms., fol. . no. . _a ballade._ begins--'o mercifull and o merciable.' in seven-line stanzas. the trin. ms. has stanzas; but stowe omitted the tenth, because it coincides with st. of the craft of lovers. it is made up of scraps from other poems. stanzas - form part of a poem on the fall of man, from lydgate's _court of sapience_ (see vol. i. p. ). in st. occurs the assonance of _hote_ (hot) and _stroke_; and in st. , that of _cureth_ and _renueth_. from the trin. ms., fol. . no. . _the judgement of paris._ in seven-line stanzas; the first is allotted to pallas, who tells paris to take the apple, and give it to the fairest of the three goddesses. after this, he is addressed in succession by juno, venus, and minerva (as she is now called). then the poem ends. trin. ms., fol. , back. no. . _a balade pleasaunte._ begins--'i haue a ladie where so she bee.' in seven-line stanzas. meant to be facetious; e.g. 'her skin is smothe as any oxes tong.' the author says that when he was fifteen years old, he saw the wedding of queen jane; and that was so long ago that there cannot be many such alive. as joan of navarre was married to henry iv in , he was born in , and would have been sixty-two in . it is an imitation of lydgate's poem entitled a satirical description of his lady; see minor poems, ed. halliwell, p. . trin. ms., fol. . no. . _another balade._ begins--'o mossie quince, hangyng by your stalke.' in seven-line stanzas, of which stowe omits the second. a scurrilous performance. trin. ms., fol. , back. [no. . a ballad by lydgate; printed below, at p. .] no. is a balade in seven-line stanzas, of no merit, on the theme of the impossibility of restoring a woman's chastity. no. . _the court of love._ printed below, at p. . no. is a genuine poem; and no. is lydgate's story of thebes. and here stowe's performance ceases. § . the subsequent additions made by speght are discussed in vol. i. pp. - . of these, the flower and the leaf, jack upland, and hoccleve's poem to henry v, are here reprinted; and chaucer's abc is genuine. he also reprinted the sayings at p. . the pieces not reprinted here are chaucer's dream and eight goodly questions. _chaucer's dream_ is a false title, assigned to it by speght; its proper name is _the isle of ladies_. begins--'whan flora, the quene of pleasaunce.' the ms. at longleat is said to have been written about . a second ms. has been acquired by the british museum, named ms. addit. ; this is also in a hand of the sixteenth century, and presents frequent variations in the text. it is very accessible, in the texts by moxon, bell, and morris; but how tyrwhitt ever came to dream that it could be genuine, must remain a mystery. i originally hoped to include this poem in the present selection, but its inordinate length compelled me to abandon my intention. in a prologue of seventy lines, the author truthfully states, at l. , that he is 'a slepy[ ] writer.' there are many assonances, such as _undertakes_, _scapes_ ( ); _named_, _attained_ ( ); _tender_, _remember_ ( , ); _rome_, _towne_ ( ). note also such rimes as _destroied_, _conclude_ ( ); _queen_, _kneen_, pl. of _knee_ ( ); _nine_, _greene_ ( ); _vertuous_, _use_ ( ). some rimes exhibit the northern dialect; as _paines_, _straines_, pr. s., ; _wawe_, _overthrawe_, pp., ; _servand_, _livand_, pres. pt., ; _greene_, _eene_ (pl. of _e_, eye), ; _hand_, _avisand_, pres. pt., ; &c. yet the writer is not particular; if he wants a rime to _wroth_, he uses the southern form _goth_, ; but if he wants a rime to _rose_, he uses the northern form _gose_ (goes), , . but before any critic can associate this poem with chaucer, he has first to prove that it was written before . moreover, it belongs to the cycle of metrical romances, being connected (as tyrwhitt says) with the _eliduc_ of marie de france; and, perhaps, with her _lanval_. to the _isle of ladies_ speght appended two other poems, of which the former contains a single stanza of lines, and the latter is a ballad in seven-line stanzas. no. . _eight goodly questions_; in bell's chaucer, iv. . in seven-line stanzas. first printed in . there are at least two manuscript copies; one in the trinity ms., marked r. . ; and another in the bannatyne ms., printed at p. of the print of the bannatyne ms., issued by the hunterian club in . in l. , the latter ms. corrects _tree_ to _coffour_, the scottish form of _cofre_. it is merely expanded from the first seven lines of a poem by ausonius, printed in walker's _corpus poetarum latinorum_, with the title eorundem septem sapientum sententiae. this english version is quite in lydgate's style. § . editions and mss. consulted. i have repeatedly explained that there were but four black-letter editions of collected works before speght's; and these i call thynne's first edition ( ), thynne's second edition ( ), the undated edition (about , which i call for brevity), and stowe's edition ( ) respectively. i shall denote these editions below by the symbols 'th.,' ed. , ed. , and 's.' respectively. of these editions, the first is the best; the second is derived from the first; the third is derived from the second; and the fourth from the third[ ]. in every case it is useless to consult a later edition when an earlier one can be found. the following is the list of the pieces which depend on the editions _only_, or for which the editions have been collated. i always cite the earliest; that the later ones _also_ contain the piece in question must, once for all, be understood. caxton.--xxviii. no. vii. was also collated with a print by caxton. wynkyn de worde.--xxiii. wynkyn de worde.--viii. chepman and miller ( ).--viii. th.--i. ix. xi. xxii. also collated for iv. v. vii. viii. x. xii. xvi. xvii. xviii. xix. xxi. xxiii. thynne had access to excellent mss., and is always worth consulting. ed. .--ii. xxviii. collated for vi. an early printed edition of jack upland.--iii. s. ( ).--xv. collated for xiii. xiv. xxiv. xxv. xxix. a printed edition of the testament of cresseid ( ).--xvii. speght ( ).--xx. collated for iii. the following twenty mss. have been collated or consulted. trentham ms.--iv. (see introduction.) fairfax .-v. viii. xiii. xvi. xviii. xix. (see vol. i. p. .) bodley .--v. viii. xviii. (see vol. i. p. .) tanner .--v. viii. xviii. xix. (see vol. i. p. .) ashmole .--vii. x. xiii. (see vol. i. p. .) arch. selden b. .--v. viii. xviii. xxvi. xxvii. (see vol. i. p. .) digby .--v. viii. (see vol. i. p. .) camb. univ. lib. ff. . .--v. xii. xvi. xviii. (see vol. i. p. .) pepys .--viii. (see vol. i. p. .) trin. coll. r. . .--xiv. xvi. xxi. xxiv. xxv. xxix. (see vol. i. p. .) trin. coll. r. . .--v. (one of shirley's mss.) trin. coll. o. . .--xiv. addit. , b. m.--xiii. (see vol. i. p. .) addit. , b. m.--xxi. harl. , b. m.--xvi. (see vol. i. p. .) harl. , b. m.--vii. xii. xiv. (see vol. i. p. .) harl. , b. m.--xiii. (see vol. i. p. .) sloane , b. m.--x. (a fair copy.) phillipps .--vi. (see hoccleve's poems, ed. furnivall, p. .) ashburnham .--v. (see the same, p. xxvii.) § . conversely, i here give the authorities from which each piece is derived. for further comments on some of them, see the separate introductions to each piece below. i. _the testament of love_ (prose).--th. (thynne, ). ii. _the plowmans tale_ ( lines).--th. (thynne, ). iii. _jack upland_ (prose).--early edition, caius college library; speght ( ). iv. _praise of peace_ ( lines).--th. ( ); trentham ms. v. _letter of cupid_ ( lines).--th. ( ); fairfax, bodley, tanner, selden, ashburnham, digby mss.; trin. coll. r. . ; camb. ff. . ; also in the bannatyne ms. vi. _to the king's grace_ ( ).--th. ( ); phillipps . vii. _a moral balade_ ( ).--th. ( ); caxton; ashmole , harl. . (i also find a reference to harl. , fol. , back.) viii. _complaint of the black knight_ ( ).--th. ( ); fairfax, bodley, tanner, digby, selden, pepys; addit. . also printed, separately, by wynkyn de worde (n. d.); and at edinburgh, by chepman and miller, in . ix. _the flour of curtesye_ ( ).--th. ( ). x. _in commendation of our lady_ ( ).--th.; ashmole ; sloane . xi. _to my soverain lady_ ( ).--th. xii. _ballad of good counsel_ ( ).--th.; camb. ff. . ; harl. . xiii. _beware of doubleness_ ( ).--stowe ( ); fairfax , ashmole , harl. , addit. . xiv. _a balade: warning men_ ( ).--stowe ( ); harl. , fol. , back; trin. r. . ; trin. o. . . xv. _three sayings_ ( ).--stowe ( ). xvi. _la belle dame sans mercy_ ( ).--th.; fairfax, harl. ; camb. ff. . ; trin. r. . , fol. . xvii. _testament of cresseid_ ( ).--th.; edinburgh edition ( ). xviii. _the cuckoo and the nightingale_ ( ).--th.; fairfax, bodley, tanner, selden; camb. ff. . . xix. _envoy to alison_ ( ).--th.; fairfax, tanner. xx. _the flower and the leaf_ ( ).--speght ( ). xxi. _the assembly of ladies_ ( ).--th.; addit. ; trin. r. . . xxii. _a goodly balade_ ( ).--th. xxiii. _go forth, king_ ( ).--wynkyn de worde; th. xxiv. _the court of love_ ( ).--stowe ( ); trin. r. . . xxv. _virelai_ ( ).--stowe ( ); trin. r. . . xxvi. _prosperity_ ( ); xxvii. _loyalty_ ( ).--selden ms. xxviii. _sayings_ ( ).--caxton; reprinted, th. ( ). xxix. _in praise of chaucer_ ( ).--stowe ( ); trin. r. . . * * * * * § . i. the testament of love; by thomas usk. of this piece no ms. copy has been discovered. the only authority is thynne's edition of , whence all later editions have been copied more or less incorrectly. the reprints will be found to grow steadily worse, so that the first edition is the only one worth consulting. the present edition is printed from a transcript of thynne ( ), made by myself; the proof-sheets being carefully read with the original. in making the transcript, i have altered the symbol _u_ to _v_, when used as a consonant; and (in the few places where it occurs) the consonantal _i_ to _j_. i have also substituted _i_ for _y_ when the vowel is short, chiefly in the case of the suffix _-yng_ or _-ynge_, here printed _-ing_ or _-inge_. in nearly all other cases, the original spellings are given in the footnotes. thynne's chief errors of printing occur in places where he has persistently altered the spelling of the ms. to suit the spelling in fashion in the days of henry viii. his chief alterations are as follows. he prints _ea_ for open _ee_, written _ee_ or _e_ at the beginning of the fifteenth century; thus, he has _ease_ for _ese_, and _please_ for _plese_. he most perversely adds a useless final _e_ to the words _howe_, _nowe_, and some others; and he commits the anachronism of printing _father_, _mother_, _together_, _wether_, _gather_, in place of _fader_, _moder_, _togeder_, _weder_, _gader_; whereas the termination in these words invariably appears as _-der_ till shortly before . further, he prints _catche_ for _cacche_, _perfection_ for _perfeccion_, and the like; and in several other ways has much impaired the spelling of his original. many of these things i have attempted to set right; and the scholar who compares the text with the footnotes will easily see why each alteration has been made, if he happens to be at all conversant with mss. written in the fourteenth century. i believe that this piece is almost unparalleled as regards the shameful corruption of its text. it cannot be supposed that thynne or any one else ever read it over with the view of seeing whether the result presented any sense. originally written in an obscure style, every form of carelessness seems to have been employed in order to render it more obscure than before. in a great number of places, it is easy to restore the sense by the insertion of such necessary words as _of_, or _but_, or _by_. in other places, non-existent words can be replaced by real ones; or some correction can be made that is more or less obvious. i have marked all inserted words by placing them within square brackets, as, e.g., _am_ in l. on p. . corrections of readings are marked by the use of a dagger (+); thus 'i +wot wel' in l. on p. is my emendation of thynne's phrase 'i wol wel,' which is duly recorded in the footnote. but some sentences remain in which the sense is not obvious; and one is almost tempted to think that the author did not clearly know what he intended to say. that he was remarkable for a high degree of inaccuracy will appear presently. a strange misprint occurs in book iii. ch. , ll. , (p. ), where nearly two whole lines occur twice over; but the worst confusion is due to an extraordinary dislocation of the text in book iii. (c. iv. l. --c. ix. l. ), as recently discovered by the sagacity of mr. h. bradley, and explained more fully below. i have also, for the first time, revised the punctuation, which in thynne is only denoted by frequent sloping strokes and full stops, which are not always inserted in the right places. and i have broken up the chapters into convenient paragraphs. § . a very curious point about this piece is the fact which i was the first to observe, viz. that the initial letters of the various chapters were certainly intended to form an acrostic. unfortunately, thynne did not perceive this design, and has certainly begun some of the chapters either with the wrong letter or at a wrong place. the sense shews that the first letter of book i. ch. viii. should be e, not o (see the note); and, with this correction, the initial letters of the first book yield the words--margarete of. in book ii, thynne begins chapters xi and xii at wrong places, viz. with the word 'certayn' (p. , l. ), and the word 'trewly' (p. , l. ). he thus produces the words--virtw have mctrci. it is obvious that the last word ought to be merci, which can be obtained by beginning chapter xi with the word 'every,' which suits the sense quite as well. for the chapters of book iii, we are again dependent on thynne. if we accept his arrangement as it stands, the letters yielded are--on thsknvi; and the three books combined give us the sentence:--margarete of virtw, have merci on thsknvi. here 'margarete of virtw' means 'margaret endued with divine virtue'; and the author appeals either to the grace of god, or to the church. the last word ought to give us the author's name; but in that case the letters require rearrangement before the riddle can be read with certainty. after advancing so far towards the solution of the mystery, i was here landed in a difficulty which i was unable to solve. but mr. h. bradley, by a happy inspiration, hit upon the idea that the text might have suffered dislocation; and was soon in a position to prove that no less than six leaves of the ms. must have been out of place, to the great detriment of the sense and confusion of the argument. he very happily restored the right order, and most obligingly communicated to me the result. i at once cancelled the latter part of the treatise (from p. to the end), and reprinted this portion in the right order, according to the sense. with this correction, the unmeaning thsknvi is resolved into the two words thin usk, i.e. 'thine usk'; a result the more remarkable because mr. bradley had _previously_ hit upon usk as being the probable author. for the autobiographical details exactly coincide, in every particular, with all that is known of the career of thomas usk, according to walsingham, the rolls of parliament, and the continuation of higden's polychronicon by john malverne (ed. lumby, vol. ix. pp. - , , , ); cf. lingard, ed. , iii. - . the date of the composition of this piece can now be determined without much error. usk was executed on march , , and we find him referring to past events that happened towards the end of or later. the most likely date is about . i here append an exact account of the order of the text _as it appears in thynne_; every break in the text being denoted, in the present volume, by a dark asterisk. thynne's text is in a correct order from p. to p. , l. :--any mouable tyme there (th. fol. , col. , l. )[ ]. ( ) next comes, in thynne, the passage beginning at p. , l. :--fole, haue i not seyd--and ending at p. , l. :--syth god is the greatest loue and the (th. fol. , back, col. , l. ). ( ) next, in thynne, the passage beginning at p. , l. :--ne ought to loke thynges with resonnyng--and ending at p. , l. , at the end of a chapter (th. fol. , back, col. , last line). ( ) next, in thynne, the passage beginning at p. , l. :--now trewly, lady--and ending at p. , at the end of the chapter (th. fol. , last line). ( ) next, in thynne, the passage beginning at p. , new chapter:--uery trouth (quod she)--and ending at p. , l. :--that shal bringe out frute that (th. fol. , back, col. , l. ). ( ) next, in thynne, the passage beginning at p. , l. :--is nothyng preterit ne passed--and ending at p. , l. :--euer to onbyde (th. fol. , col. , l. ). ( ) next, in thynne, the passage beginning at p. , new chapter:--nowe, lady (quod i) that tree to set--and ending at p. , l. :--vse ye (th. fol. , back, col. , l. ). ( ) lastly, the text reverts to the true order, at p. , l. , with the words:--greatest wisdom (th. fol. , back, col. , l. . as before). see the athenæum, no. , feb. , . it is not difficult to account for this somewhat confusing dislocation. it is clear that the original ms. was written on quires of the usual size, containing folios apiece. the first quires, which we may call _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_, _g_, _h_, _i_, and _k_, were in the right order. the rest of the ms. occupied quire _l_ (of folios), and quire _m_ (of only ); the last page being blank. the seventh folio of _l_ was torn up the back, so that the two leaves parted company; and the same happened to both the folios in quire _m_, leaving six leaves loose. what then happened was this:--first of all, folios _l__ --_l__ , were reversed and turned inside out; then came the former halves of _m__ , and _m__ , and the latter half of _l__ ; next _l__ and _l__ (undetached), with the former half of _l__ thrust in the middle; so that the order in this extraordinary quire was as follows: _l__ , _l__ , _l__ , _l__ , all inside out, half of _m__ , half of _m__ , the latter half of _l__ , _l__ , _l__ , and the former half of _l__ , followed by the six undetached leaves. the last quire simply consisted of _l__ (entire), followed by the latter halves of _m__ and _m__ , which were kept in the right order by the fact that the last page was blank. it has thus become possible for us to make some progress towards the right understanding of the work, which has hitherto been much misunderstood. warton (hist. e. poetry, , ii. ) dismisses it in two lines:--'it is a lover's parody of boethius's book de consolatione mentioned above'; whereas the author was not a lover at all, except in a spiritual sense. even the fuller account in morley's english writers ( ), v. , is not wholly correct. the statement is there made, that 'it professes to be written, and probably was written, by a prisoner in danger of his life'; but the prison[ ] may have been _at first_ metaphorical, as he could hardly have written the whole work in two or three months. in book iii. ch. , ll. , , he prays that 'god's hand, which has scourged him in mercy, may hereafter mercifully keep and defend him in good plight.' the whole tone of the treatise shews that he is writing to justify himself, and thinks that he has succeeded. but a stern doom was close at hand. § . the truth is that the attempts of godwin and others to make the autobiographical statements of the author fit into the life of chaucer, have quite led the critics out of the right track. that the author was _not_ chaucer is perfectly obvious to every one who reads the passage in the lower half of p. with moderate attention; for the author there refers to chaucer as love's 'noble philosophical poet in english,' who wrote a treatise of love's servant troilus, and who 'passeth all other makers in wit and in good reason of sentence'; praise which, however true it may be of chaucer, the writer was certainly not entitled to claim for himself. the sole point in which the circumstances of the author agree with those of chaucer is this--that they were both born in london; which is, obviously, too slight a coincidence to build upon. now that we know the author's name to have been thomas usk, the matter assumes quite another complexion. usk was much inclined, in his early days, to a belief in lollard opinions; but when he found that persistence in such belief was likely to lead to trouble and danger, he deemed it prudent to recant as completely as he could[ ], and contemplates his consequent security with some complacency. in just the same way, it appears that he had changed sides in politics. we first find him in the position of confidential clerk to john of northampton, mayor of london in - and - . in july, , usk was arrested and imprisoned in order to induce him to reveal certain secrets implicating northampton. this he consented to do, and accused northampton before the king at reading, on the th of august. northampton strenuously denied the charges against him, but was condemned as guilty, and sent to corfe castle[ ]. after this, usk joined the party of sir nicholas brembre, mayor of london in - , - , and - , and collector of customs in - , when chaucer was comptroller of the same. brembre had been active in procuring the condemnation of northampton, and was, at the close of , one of the few personal adherents who remained faithful to the king. in , richard was busily devising means for the overthrow of the duke of gloucester's regency, brembre and usk being on the king's side; but his attempts were unsuccessful, and, in november of the same year, the duke of gloucester and his partisans, who were called the 'appellants,' became masters of the situation; they accused the king's councillors of treason, and imprisoned or banished their opponents. on feb. , , the appellants produced their charges against their victims, brembre and usk being among the number. both were condemned and executed, brembre on feb. , and usk on the th of march. usk's offence was that he had been appointed sub-sheriff of middlesex by brembre's influence[ ], with a view to the arrest of the duke of gloucester and others of his party. his defence was that all that he had done was by the king's orders, a defence on which he doubtless relied. unfortunately for him, it was an aggravation of his crime. it was declared that he ought to have known that the king was not at the time his own master, but was acting according to the counsel of false advisers; and this sealed his fate. he was sentenced to be drawn, hung, and beheaded, and that his head should be set up over newgate. the sentence was barbarously carried out; he was hung but immediately cut down, and clumsily beheaded by nearly thirty strokes of a sword. 'post triginta mucronis ictus fere decapitatus semper usque ad mortem nunquam fatebatur se deliquisse contra johannem northampton, sed erant omnia vera quae de eo praedicaverat coram rege in quodam consilio habito apud radyngum anno elapso.'--higden, app. . john of malverne speaks as if he had some personal recollection of usk, of whom he says--'satagebat namque astu et arte illorum amicitiam sibi attrahere quos procul dubio ante capitales hostes sibi fuisse cognovit,'--ib. p. . we can now readily understand that usk's praise of chaucer must have been more embarrassing than acceptable; and perhaps it was not altogether without design that the poet, in his house of fame, took occasion to let the world know how he devoted his leisure time to other than political subjects. § . some of the events of his life are alluded to by usk in the present treatise. he justifies his betrayal of northampton (p. , ll. - , p. , ll. - ), and is grateful for the king's pardon (p. , ll. - ). he refers to his first imprisonment (p. , l. ), and tells us that he offered wager of battle against all who disputed his statements (p. , l, ; p. , l. ); but no one accepted the wager. he further tells us how he endeavoured to make his peace with the church. taking his cue from the parable of the merchantman seeking goodly pearls (p. , l. ), he likens the visible church of christ to the pearl of great price (p. , l. ; p. , l. ), and piteously implores her mercy (p. , l. ); and the whole tone of the piece shews his confidence that he is reasonably safe (p. , l. ). he sees clearly that lollardy is unacceptable, and indulges in the usual spiteful fling against the cockle (_lolia_) which the lollards were reproached with sowing (p. , l. ). he had once been a heretic (p. , l. ), and in danger of 'never returning' to the true church (p. , l. ); but he secured his safety by a full submission (p. , l. ). at the same time, there is much about the piece that is vague, shifty, and unsatisfactory. he is too full of excuses, and too plausible; in a word, too selfish. hence he has no real message for others, but only wishes to display his skill, which he does by help of the most barefaced and deliberate plagiarism. it was not from the consolatio philosophiae of boethius, but from the english translation of that work by chaucer, that he really drew his materials; and he often takes occasion to lift lines or ideas from the poem of troilus whenever he can find any that come in handy. in one place he turns a long passage from the house of fame into very inferior prose. there are one or two passages that remind us of the legend of good women (i. pr. , ii. . , iii. . ); but they are remarkably few. but he keeps a copy of chaucer's boethius always open before him, and takes from it passage after passage, usually with many alterations, abbreviations, expansions, and other disfigurements; but sometimes without any alteration at all. a few examples will suffice, as a large number of parallel passages are duly pointed out in the notes. § . in chaucer's boethius (bk. i. pr. . ), when philosophy, the heavenly visitant, comes to comfort the writer, her first words are:--'_o my norry_, sholde i forsaken thee now?' in the testament (p. , l. ), heavenly love commences her consolations with the same exclamation:--'_o my nory_, wenest thou that my maner be, to foryete my frendes or my servaunts?' the latin text--'an te, _alumne_, desererem?'--does not suggest this remarkable mode of address. this, however, is a mere beginning; it is not till further on that plagiarisms begin to be frequent. at first, as at p. , the author copies the sense rather than the words; but he gradually begins to copy words and phrases also. thus, at p. , l. , his '_chayres_ of domes' comes from chaucer's 'heye _chayres_' in bk. i. met. . ; and then, in the next line, we find '_vertue, shynende naturelly ... is hid_ under cloude,' where chaucer has '_vertu_, cler-_shyninge naturelly is hid_ in derke derknesses'; bk. i. met. . . at p. , l. , we have: '_whan nature brought thee forth_, come thou not _naked out of thy moders wombe_? thou haddest no richesse'; where chaucer has: '_whan_ that _nature broughte thee forth out of thy moder wombe_, i receyved thee _naked_, and nedy of alle thinges'; bk. ii. pr. . . just a few lines below (ll. - ) we have the sense, but not the words, of the neighbouring passage in chaucer (ll. - ). further literal imitations are pointed out in the notes to l. in the same chapter, and elsewhere. see, for example, the notes to book ii. ch. iv. , , , ; ch. v. , , , , ; ch. vi. , , , , , , , ; ch. vii. , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; &c. those who require conviction on this point may take such an example as this. 'o! a noble thing and clere is power, that is not founden mighty to kepe himselfe'; (p. , l. ). 'o! a noble thing and a cleer thing is power, that is nat founden mighty to kepen it-self'; ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . the latin text is: 'o praeclara potentia quae nec ad conseruationem quidem sui satis efficax inuenitur.' i see no reason for supposing that the author anywhere troubled himself to consult the latin original. indeed, it is possible to correct errors in the text by help of chaucer's version; see the last note on p. . § . we get the clearest idea of the author's method by observing his treatment of the house of fame, - . it is worth while to quote the whole passage:-- 'lo! how a woman doth amis _to love_ him that unknowen is!... hit _is not_ al _gold_ that glareth;... ther _may be under_ goodliheed kevered _many_ a shrewed _vyce_; _therefore_ be _no wight_ so nyce, to take a love only for _chere_, for _speche_, or for frendly manere; for this shal every woman finde that som _man_, of his pure kinde, wol _shewen outward_ the faireste _til he have_ caught that what him leste; and _thanne wol_ he _causes finde_, and swere how that she is unkinde, _or fals_, or prevy, or double was ... therfor i wol seye a proverbe, that "he that fully knoweth th'erbe may saufly leye hit to his yë" ... allas! is every man thus trewe, that every yere wolde have a newe, ... as thus: of _oon_ he wolde _have fame_, in magnifying of his name; another _for frendship_, seith he; and yet ther shal the _thri de_ be, that shal be taken _for delyt_ ... _allas, that ever_ hadde routhe _any woman_ on any man! now see i wel, and telle can, we wrecched _women conne_ non art ... how sore that _ye men_ conne _grone_, anoon, as we have yow receyved, certeinly we _ben deceyved_;... for through you is my name _lorn_, and alle my actes _red and songe_ over al this land on every tonge. o wikke _fame_!... eek, thogh i mighte _duren ever_, _that_ i _have doon, rekever_ i _never_ ... and that i shal thus juged be-- "lo, right as she hath doon, now she wol do eftsones, hardily."' if the reader will now turn to p. , l. , and continue down to l. on the next page, he will find the whole of this passage turned into prose, with numerous cunning alterations and a few insertions, yet including all such words as are printed above in italics! that is, he will find all except the proverb in ll. , ; but this also is not far off; for it occurs over the leaf, on p. , at l. , and again at p. , ll. - ! surely, this is nothing but book-making, and the art of it does not seem to be difficult. § . the author expressly acknowledges his admiration of troilus (p. , l. ); and it is easy to see his indebtedness to that poem. he copies chaucer's curious mistake as to styx being a pit (p. , l. , and the note). he adopts the words _let-game_ (p. , l. ) and _wiver_ (p. , l. ). he quotes a whole line from troilus at p. , l. (see note); and spoils another one at p. , ch. viii. l. , a third at p. , l. , and a fourth at p. , ch. vii. l. . we can see whence he took his allusion to 'playing raket,' and to the dock and nettle, at p. , ll. , ; and the phrase to 'pype with an yvè-lefe' at p. , l. . it is further observable that he had read a later text of piers plowman with some care, but he seems to quote it from memory, as at p. , l. , and p. , l. . a few other passages in which he seems to have taken ideas from this popular and remarkable poem are pointed out in the notes. it is probable that he thence adopted the words _legistres_ and _skleren_; for which see the glossary, and consult the notes for the references which are there given. § . the author is frequently guilty of gross inaccuracies. he seems to confuse cain with ham (p. , ll. , ), but _cayn_, says mr. bradley, may be thynne's misprint for _cam_, i.e. ham. he certainly confuses perdiccas with arrhidæus (p. , l. ). he speaks of the _eighth_ year, instead of the _seventh_, as being a sabbatical year, and actually declares that the ordinary week contains _seven_ working-days (p. , ll. - )! he tells us that sunday begins 'at the first hour after noon (!) on saturday' (p. , l. ). hence it is not to be wondered at that some of his arguments and illustrations are quite unintelligible. § . the title of the work, viz. the testament of love, readily reminds us of the passage in gower already quoted in vol. iii. p. xliii., in which the goddess venus proposes that chaucer should write 'his testament of love,' in order 'to sette an ende of alle his werke.' i have already explained that the real reference in this passage is to the legend of good women; but i am not prepared, at present, to discuss the connection between the expression in gower and the treatise by usk. the fact that our author adopted the above title may have led to the notion that chaucer wrote the treatise here discussed; but it is quite clear that he had nothing to do with it. professor morley well says that 'the writer of this piece uses the word testament in the old scriptural sense of a witnessing, and means by love the divine love, the christian spirit encouraging and directing the wish for the grace of god, called margaret, the pearl beyond all price.' to which, however, it is highly essential to add that margaret is not used in the sense of 'grace' alone, but is also employed, in several passages, to signify 'the visible church of christ.' the author is, in fact, careful to warn us of the varying, the almost protean sense of the word at p. , where he tells us that 'margarite, a woman [i.e. properly a woman's name], betokeneth _grace_, _lerning_, or _wisdom of god_, or els _holy church_.' his object seems to have been to extend the meaning of the word so as to give him greater scope for ingenuity in varying his modes of reference to it. he has certainly succeeded in adding to the obscurity of his subject. that by 'holy church' he meant the visible church of christ of his own time, appears from the remarkable assertion that it is 'deedly,' i.e. mortal (p. , l. ). such an epithet is inapplicable to the church in its spiritual character. it may also be observed that, however much the sense implied by margarite may vary, it never takes the meaning which we should most readily assign to it; i.e. it never means a live woman, nor represents even an imaginary object of natural human affection. the nearest approach to such an ideal is at p. , l. , where we are told that the jewel which he hopes to attain is as precious a pearl as a woman is by nature. § . it hardly seems worth while to give a detailed analysis of the whole piece. an analysis of the first book (which is, on the whole, the best) is given by professor morley; and the hints which i have already given as to the character and situation of the author will enable the reader to regard the treatise from a right point of view. but it is proper to observe that the author himself tells us how he came to divide the work into three books[ ], and what are the ideas on which each book is founded. each of the three books has an introductory chapter. that to the first book i have called a prologue; and perhaps it would have been strictly correct to have called the first chapters of the other books by the same name. in the introductory chapter to the third book, p. , he declares that the first book is descriptive of error, or deviation (which the editions print as demacion!); the second, of grace; and the third, of joy. in other words, the first book is particularly devoted to recounting the errors of his youth, especially how he was led by others into a conspiracy against the state and into deviation from orthodoxy. in the prologue, he excuses himself for writing in english, and announces the title of the work. he then assures us that he is merely going to gather up the crumbs that have fallen from the table, and to glean handfuls of corn which boethius has dropped. 'a sly servant in his own help is often much commended'; and this being understood, he proceeds to help himself accordingly, as has already been explained. § . book i: ch. i. in chapter i, he describes his misery, and hopes that the dice will turn, and implores the help of margaret, here used (apparently) to typify the grace of god. he represents himself as being in prison, in imitation of boethius; but i suspect that, _in the present passage_, the prison was metaphorical. (he had been imprisoned in , and in was imprisoned again; but that is another matter.) ch. ii. heavenly love suddenly appears to him, as philosophy appeared to boethius, and is ready to console and reclaim him. she is aware of his losses, and he tries to vindicate his constancy of character. ch. iii. he describes how he once wandered through the woods at the close of autumn, and was attacked by some animals who had suddenly turned wild. to save himself, he embarks on board a ship; but the reader is disappointed to find that the adventure is wholly unreal; the ship is the ship of travail, peopled by sight, lust, thought, and will. he is driven on an island, where he catches a glimpse of love, and finds a margaret, a pearl of price. he appeals to love to comfort him. ch. iv. love first reproves and then consoles him. she enquires further into his complaints. ch. v. she advises him to contemn such as have spoken against him. he complains that he has served seven years for rachel, and prays for comfort in his eighth year. she exhorts him to perseverance. ch. vi. he here goes into several details as to his previous conduct. the authorities threatened to keep him in prison, unless he would reveal a certain secret or plot. he was afraid that the peace of his native place, london, would suffer; and to procure its peace, he 'declared certain points.' being charged upon oath to reveal certain secret dealings, he at once did so; for which he incurred much odium. ch. vii. to prove that he had only spoken the truth, he offered wager of battle; and was justified by the fact that no one accepted it. he had not perjured himself, because his oath in the law-court was superior to his former oath of secrecy. he only meant truth, but was sadly slandered. it is absurd to be 'a stinking martyr' in a false cause. ch. viii. love tells him he has greatly erred, and must expect much correction. earthly fame should be despised, whilst he looks for the fame that comes after death. ch. ix. love vindicates the greatness of god and the goodness of his providence. ch. x. the author complains of his hard fortune; he has lost his goods and has been deprived of his office. love explains that adversity teaches salutary lessons, and that the true riches may still be his own. § . book ii. in the first chapter (or prologue) of the second book, he again discusses the object of his work. in chapter ii, love sings him a latin song, introducing complaints against the clergy such as frequently occur in piers the plowman. in chapter iii, we find a discourse on womankind, largely borrowed from chaucer's house of fame. the next eight chapters are chiefly devoted to a discussion of the way by which the repentant sinner may come to 'the knot' of heavenly bliss; and it is here, in particular, that a large portion of chaucer's boethius is freely imitated or copied. the last three chapters recount the excellences of margaret, which in many passages refers rather to the visible church than to divine grace. § . book iii. the first chapter is again introductory, explaining why the number of books is three. 'the margaret in virtue is likened to philosophy, with her three kinds.' it is remarkable that this third book, which is dedicated to joy, is the dullest of the three, being largely taken up with the questions of predestination and free will, with more borrowings from chaucer's boethius. in chapter v, love explains how continuance in good will produces the fruit of grace; and, in chapters vi and vii, shews how such grace is to be attained. chapter ix recurs to the subject of predestination; after which the work comes to a formal conclusion, with excuses for its various imperfections. § . ii. the plowmans tale. this piece does not appear in thynne's first edition of , but occurs, for the first time, in the second edition of , where it is added at the end of the canterbury tales, after the parson's tale. in the next (undated) edition, probably printed about , it is placed _before_ the parson's tale, as if it were really chaucer's, and the same arrangement occurs in the fourth edition, that of , by john stowe. it is worth mentioning that some booksellers put forward a fable as to the true date of the undated edition being , in order to enhance the value of their copies; but the pretence is obviously false, as is shewn by collation[ ]; besides which, it is not likely that the plowman's tale would have been _at first_ inserted before the parson's tale, _then_ placed after it, and then _again_ placed before it. it is best to separate the first four editions by nearly equal intervals, their dates being, respectively, , , about , and . comparison of the black-letter editions shews that the first is the best; and the later ones, being mere reprints, grow gradually worse. hence, in this case, the edition of is the sole authority, and the readings of the inferior copies may be safely neglected. it is remarkable that mr. t. wright, in his edition of this poem printed in his political poems and songs, i. , should have founded his text upon a reprint of speght in , when he might have taken as his authority a text more than years older. the result is, naturally, that his text is much worse than was at all necessary. according to speght, there was once a ms. copy of this piece in stowe's library, but no one knows what became of it. according to todd, in his illustrations of gower and chaucer, p. xxxix, there was once a black-letter edition of it, entitled 'the plouuman's tale compylled by syr geffray chaucer knyght.' todd says: 'it is of the duodecimo size, in the black letter, without date, and imprinted at london in paules churche-yarde at the sygne of the hyll, by wyllyam hyll. i have compared with the poem as printed by urry forty or fifty lines, and i found almost as many variations between them[ ]. the colophon of this book is, _thus endeth the boke of chaunterburye tales_. this rarity belongs to the rev. mr. conybeare, the present professor of the saxon language in the university of oxford.' this edition can no longer be traced. hazlitt mentions a black-letter edition of this piece, printed separately by thomas godfray (about ), on twenty leaves; of which only one copy is known, viz. that at britwell. there is also a late print of it in the bodleian library, dated . § . it is needless to discuss the possibility that chaucer wrote this tale, as it is absent from all the mss.; and it does not appear that the ascription of it to him was taken seriously. it is obvious, from the introductory prologue (p. ), that the author never intended his work to be taken for chaucer's; he purposely chooses a different metre from any that occurs in the canterbury tales, and he introduces his ploughman as coming under the host's notice quite suddenly, so that the host is constrained to ask him--'what man art thou?' the whole manner of the tale is conspicuously and intentionally different from that of chaucer; and almost the only expression which at all resembles chaucer occurs in ll. , :-- 'i pray you that no man me reproche whyl that i am my tale telling.' chaucer himself, before reciting his tale of melibeus, said much the same thing:-- 'and let me tellen al my tale, i preye.' i do not know why mr. wright, when reprinting this piece, omitted the prologue. it is a pity that half of the sixth stanza is missing. § . at l. we meet with a most important statement:-- 'of freres i have told before in a making of a crede.' it is generally agreed that the author here claims to have previously written the well-known piece entitled pierce the ploughman's crede, which i edited for the early english text society in . i then took occasion to compare the language of these two pieces (which i shall shortly call the crede and the tale), and i found ample confirmation, from internal evidence, that the claim is certainly true. there are many similarities of expression, some of which i here lay before the reader. from the crede. from the tale. curteis crist ( , ). curteys christ ( ). cutted cote ( ). cutted clothes ( ). y can noh[gh]t my crede ( ). suche that conne nat hir crede ( ). at marketts and myracles, we market-beters, and medling make medleth us nevere ( ). ( ). for we buldeth a burw[gh], a brod and builde als brode as a citè and a large ( ). ( ). portreid and peint ( ). i-paynted and portred ( ). peynt and portred ( ). y sey coveitise catel to fongen to catche catell as covytous ( ; ( ). cf. ). of double worstede y-dy[gh]t ( ). with double worsted well y-dight ( ). than ther lefte in lucifer, er he as lowe as lucifer such shall fall were lowe fallen ( ). ( ). opon the plow hongen ( ). honged at the plow ( ). povere in gost god him-self the pore in spirit gan christ blisseth ( ). blesse ( ). ben maysters icalled, that the maysters be called defended he tho gentill jesus ... purly defended ( ). ( ). to brenne the bodye in a bale of thou shalt be brent in balefull fijr ( ). fyre ( ). thei shulden nou[gh]t after the they nolde nat demen after the face ... demen ( ). face ( ). thei schulden delven and diggen threshing and dyking fro town to and dongen the erthe, town, and mene mong-corn bred to her with sory mete, and not half y-now mete fongen ( ). ( ). he mi[gh]te no maistre ben kald, maysters be called defended he tho for crist that defended ( ). ( ). the crede is written in alliterative verse; and it will be observed that alliteration is employed in the tale very freely. another peculiarity in the tale may here be noticed, viz. the use of the same rime, _fall_ or _befall_, throughout part i, with the exception of ll. - . indeed, in the first line of part ii, the author apologizes for being unable to find any more rimes for _fall_, and proceeds to rime upon _amend_ throughout that part. in part iii, he begins to rime upon _grace_ in the first two stanzas, but soon abandons it for the sake of freedom; however, at l. , he recurs to _grace_, and continues to rime upon it till the end. it is clear that the author possessed considerable facility of expression. we can date these pieces approximately without much error. the proceedings against walter brute, expressly alluded to in the crede, l. , lasted from oct. , , to oct. , , when he submitted himself to the bishop of hereford. we may well date the crede about , and the tale (which probably soon followed it, as the author repeats some of his expressions) about [ ]. both these pieces are written in a spirited style, and are of considerable interest for the light which they throw upon many of the corrupt practices of the monks, friars, and clergy. the crede is directed against the friars in particular, and reflects many of the opinions of wyclif, as will easily appear by comparing it with wyclif's works. see, in particular, his fifty heresies and errors of friars (works, ed. arnold, iii. ). it would have been easy to crowd the notes with quotations from wyclif; but it is sufficient to point out so obvious a source. i have not observed any passage in which the author copies the exact language of langland. the dialect seems to be some form of midland, and is somewhat archaic; many of the verbal forms are of some value to the philologist. taken altogether, it is a piece of considerable interest and merit. ten brink alludes to it as 'that transparent, half-prophetic allegory of the quarrel between the griffin and the pelican'; and adds--'the griffin was the representative of the prelates and the monks, the pelican that of real christianity in wyclif's sense. at a loss for arguments, the griffin calls in at last all the birds of prey in order to destroy its rival. the phoenix, however, comes to the help of the pelican, and terribly destroys the robber-brood.' tyrwhitt observed, with great acuteness, that spenser's allusion, in the epilogue to his shepheards calender, to 'the pilgrim that the ploughman playde awhyle,' may well refer to the author of the plowman's tale rather than to langland[ ]. cf. p. , l. . it was natural that spenser should mention him along with chaucer, because their productions were bound up together in the same volume; a volume which was, to spenser, a treasure-house of archaic words. the discussion on points of religion between the griffin and the pelican clearly suggested to dryden his discussion between the hind and the panther. his choice of quadrupeds in place of birds is certainly no improvement. § . iii. jack upland. of this piece, no ms. copy is known. it is usually said to have been first printed by speght, in his second edition of chaucer's works in ; but i have been so fortunate as to find a better and earlier text in the library of caius college, cambridge, to which my attention was drawn by a note in hazlitt's bibliographer's handbook. this copy, here taken as the basis of my text, and collated with speght, is a small book consisting of only leaves. the title-page contains the following words, within a square border. ¶ jack vp lande | compyled by the | famous geoffrey | chaucer. | ezechielis. xiii. | ¶ wo be vnto you that | dishonour me to me (_sic_) peo | ple for an handful of bar | lye & for a pece of bread. | cum priuilegio | regali. at the end of the treatise is the colophon: ¶ prynted for ihon gough. cum priuilegio regali. hazlitt conjectures that it was printed about . i think we may safely date it in ; for it is bound up in a volume with several other tracts, and it so happens that the tract next following it is by myles coverdale, and is dated , being printed in just the very same type and style. we can also tell that it must have been printed after , because the verse from ezekiel xiii, as quoted on the title-page (see above), exactly corresponds with coverdale's version of the bible, the first edition of which appeared in that year. the text of jack upland, in the caius college copy, has the following heading, in small type:--'¶ these b[=e] the lewed questions of freres rytes and obseruaunces the whych they chargen more than goddes lawe, and therfore men shulden not gyue hem what so they beggen, tyll they hadden answered and clerely assoyled these questions.' as this copy is, on the whole, considerably superior to speght's both as regards sense and spelling, i have not given his inferior readings and errors. in a very few places, speght furnishes some obvious corrections; and in such instances his readings are noted. § . a very convenient reprint of speght's text is given in wright's edition of political poems and songs (record series), vol. ii. p. . in the same volume, p. , is printed a reply to jack upland's questions by a friar who facetiously calls himself friar daw topias, though it appears (from a note printed at p. ) that his real name was john walsingham. nor is this all; for friar daw's reply is further accompanied by jack upland's rejoinder, printed, for convenience, below friar daw's text. it is most likely, as mr. wright concludes, that all three pieces may be dated in the same year. it was necessary that friar daw (who gave himself this name in order to indicate that he is a comparatively unlearned man, yet easily able to refute his audacious questioner) should produce his reply at once; and we may be sure that jack's rejoinder was not long delayed. fortunately, the date can be determined with sufficient exactness; for jack's rejoinder contains the allusion: 'and the kyng by his juges trwe [sholde] execute his lawe, as he _did now late_, whan he hangid you traytours,' p. . this clearly refers to june, [ ], when eight franciscan friars were hanged at tyburn for being concerned in a plot against the life of henry iv. we may, accordingly, safely refer all three pieces to the year ; shortly after chaucer's death. § . it is also tolerably clear that there must have been two texts of 'jack upland,' an earlier and a later one. the earlier one, of which we have no copy, can easily be traced by help of friar daw's reply, as he quotes all that is material point by point. it only extended as far as the th question in the present edition (p. ); after which followed two more questions which do not here reappear. the later copy also contains a few questions, not far from the beginning, which friar daw ignores. it is clear that we only possess a later, and, on the whole, a fuller copy. one of the omitted questions relates to transubstantiation; and, as any discussion of it was extremely likely, at that date, to be ended by burning the disputant at the stake, it was certainly prudent to suppress it. not perceiving this point, mr. wright too hastily concluded that our copy of jack upland is extremely corrupt, a conclusion quite unwarranted; inasmuch as friar daw, in spite of his affectation of alliterative verse, quotes his adversary's questions with reasonable correctness. on this unsound theory mr. wright has built up another, still less warranted, viz. that the original copy of jack upland must have been written in alliterative verse; for no other reason than because friar daw's reply is so written. it is obvious that alliteration is conspicuously absent, except in the case of the four lines ( - ), which are introduced, by way of flourish, at the end. my own belief is that our copy of jack upland is a second edition, i.e. an amended and extended copy, which has been reasonably well preserved. it is more correct than the plowmans tale, and very much more correct than the testament of love. § . mr. wright further imagines that jack upland's rejoinder to friar daw's reply, which he prints from 'a contemporary ms. in the bodleian library at oxford, ms. digby ,' was also originally in alliterative verse. this supposition is almost as gratuitous as the former; for, although there are very frequent traces of alliteration as an occasional embellishment, it is otherwise written in ordinary prose. the mere chopping up of prose into bits of not very equal length, as in mr. wright's print, does not produce verse of any kind. friar daw's verses are bad enough, as he did not understand his model (obviously the ploughman's crede), but he usually succeeds in making a kind of jingle, with pauses, for the most part, in the right place. but there is no verse discoverable in jack upland; he preferred straightforward prose, for reasons that are perfectly obvious. for further remarks, i beg leave to refer the reader to mr. wright's introduction, pp. xii-xxiv, where he will find an excellent summary of the arguments adduced on both sides. there is a slight notice of jack upland in morley's english writers, vi. . § . iv. john gower: the praise of peace. in morley's english writers, iv. , this poem is entitled 'de pacis commendatione,' on ms. authority (see p. ). mr. e. b. nicholson, who has made a special study of gower's poems, suggested 'the praise of peace,' which i have gladly adopted. i am much obliged to mr. nicholson for his assistance in various ways; and, in particular, for the generous loan of his own transcript of this poem. § . in todd's illustrations of gower and chaucer, p. , is a notice of a ms. 'in the present marquis of stafford's library at trentham,' which had been previously described in warton's hist. of e. poetry as being 'in lord gower's library.' mr. wright alludes to it as 'a contemporary ms. in the possession of his grace the duke of sutherland.' it may be called 'the trentham ms.' 'the praise of peace' was printed from it by mr. wright, in his political poems and songs, ii. - ; and i have followed his text, which i denote by 't.' at the same time, i have collated it with the text of thynne's edition of , which is a very good one. the differences are slight. warton describes the ms. as 'a thin oblong ms. on vellum, containing some of gower's poems in latin, french, and english. by an entry in the first leaf, in the handwriting and under the signature of thomas lord fairfax, cromwell's general, an antiquarian, and a lover and collector of curious manuscripts, it appears that this book was presented by the poet gower, about [ ], to henry iv; and that it was given by lord fairfax to his friend and kinsman sir thomas gower, knight and baronet, in the year .' he goes on to say that fairfax had it from charles gedde, esq., of st. andrews; and that it was at one time in the possession of king henry vii, while earl of richmond, who wrote in it his own name in the form 'rychemond.' the ms. contains ( ) the praise of peace, _preceded by_ the seven latin lines ( - ), which i have relegated to the end of the poem, as in thynne. the title is given in the colophon (p. ); after which follow the twelve latin lines ( - ), printed on the same page. ( ) some complimentary verses in latin, also addressed to henry iv, printed in wright's political poems, ii. - . ( ) fifty balades in french, which have been printed by stengel (warton prints _four_ of them), with the colophon--'expliciunt carmina joh[=i]s gower que gallice composita _balades_ dicuntur.' ( ) two short latin poems in elegiacs; see warton. ( ) a french poem on the dignity or excellence of marriage. ( ) seventeen latin hexameters. ( ) gower's latin verses on his blindness, beginning-- 'henrici quarti primus regni fuit annus, quo michi defecit visus ad acta mea,' &c. see todd and warton for more minute particulars. § . the poem itself may safely be dated in the end of , for reasons given in the note to l. . it is of some interest, as being gower's last poem in english, and the spirit of it is excellent, though it contains no very striking lines. we have not much of gower's work in the form of seven-line stanzas. the confessio amantis contains only twelve such stanzas; iii. - . i draw attention to the earliest known reference (l. ) to the game of 'tenetz'; the enumeration of the nine worthies (ll. - ); and the reference to a story about constantine which, in the confessio amantis, is related at considerable length (l. ). we may compare with this poem the stanzas in praise of peace in hoccleve's de regimine principum, quoted in morley's english writers ( ), vol. vi. pp. - . § . v. thomas hoccleve: the letter of cupid. this poem needs little discussion. it is known to be hoccleve's; see dr. furnivall's edition of hoccleve's minor poems, e. e. t. s., , p. . as explained in the notes, it is rather closely imitated from the french poem entitled l'epistre au dieu d'amours, written by christine de pisan. at the end of her poem, christine gives the date of its composition, viz. ; and hoccleve, in like manner, gives the date of his poem as . the poem consists of sixty-eight stanzas, of which not more than eighteen are wholly independent of the original. the chief original passages are ll. - , - , and - . the poem is entirely occupied with a defence of women, such as a woman might well make. it takes the form of a reproof, addressed by cupid to all male lovers; and is directed, in particular, against the sarcasms of jean de meun (l. ) in the celebrated roman de la rose. of this poem there are several ms. copies; see footnotes at p. . the best is probably the ashburnham ms., but it has not yet been printed. i chiefly follow ms. fairfax , which dr. furnivall has taken as the basis of his text. there is also a poor and late copy in the bannatyne ms., at fol. ; see the print of it for the hunterian club, ; p. . § . vi. the same: two balades. these two balades, also by hoccleve, were composed at the same time. the former is addressed to king henry v, and the latter to the knights of the garter. they are very closely connected with a much longer poem of lines, which was addressed to sir john oldcastle in august, ; and must have been written at about that date. it was natural enough that, whilst addressing his appeal to oldcastle to renounce his heresies, the poet should briefly address the king on the same subject at the same time. i think we may safely date this piece, like the other, in august, . the remarkable likeness between the two pieces appears most in the references to justinian and to constantine. in fact, the reference to justinian in l. of the former of the balades here printed would be unintelligible but for the full explanation which the companion poem affords. i have quoted, in the note to l. , the latin note which is written in the margin of st. of the address to oldcastle; and i quote here the stanza itself:-- 'the cristen emperour justinian, as it is writen, who-so list it see, made a lawe deffending every man, of what condicion or what degree that he were of, nat sholde hardy be for to despute of the feith openly; and ther-upon sundry peynes sette he, that peril sholde eschuëd be therby.' minor poems, ed. furnivall, p. . compare with this the fourth stanza of balade i. we may regret that hoccleve's desire to make an example of heretics was so soon fulfilled. only three years later, in dec. , sir john oldcastle was captured in wales, brought up to london, and publicly burnt. my text follows the sole good ms. (phillipps ); which i have collated with the earliest printed text, that of . there is, indeed, another ms. copy of the poem in the library of trinity college, cambridge (r. . ); but it is only a late copy made from the printed book. § . vii. henry scogan: a moral balade. the heading to this poem is from ms. ashmole ; it is, unfortunately, somewhat obscure. it is, of course, not contemporaneous with the poem, but was added, by way of note, by john shirley, when transcribing it. in fact, the third son of henry iv was not created duke of bedford till , after the accession of henry v; whereas henry v is here referred to as being still 'my lord the prince.' hence the poem was written in the reign of henry iv ( - ); but we can easily come much nearer than this to the true date. we may note, first of all, that chaucer is referred to as being dead (l. ); so that the date is after . again, the poem does not appear to have been recited by the author; it was _sent_, in the author's handwriting, to the assembled guests (l. ). further, scogan says that he was 'called' the 'fader,' i.e. tutor, of the young princes (l. ); and that he sent the letter to them out of fervent regard for their welfare, in order to warn them (l. ). he regrets that sudden age has come upon him (l. ), and wishes to impart to them the lessons which the approach of old age suggests. all this points to a time when scogan was getting past his regular work as tutor, though he still retained the title; which suggests a rather late date. we find, however, from the inquisitiones post mortem (iii. ), that henry scogan died in , and i have seen it noted (i forget where) that he only attained the age of forty-six. this shews that he was only relatively old, owing, probably, to infirm health; and we may safely date the poem in or , the latter being the more likely. in , the ages of the young princes were nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen respectively, and it is not likely that scogan had been their tutor for more than twelve years at most. this provisional date of sufficiently satisfies all the conditions. the four sons of henry iv were henry, prince of wales, born at monmouth in ; thomas, born in , and created duke of clarence in ; john, born in , created duke of bedford in ; and humphrey, born in , created duke of gloucester in . § . the expression _at a souper of feorthe merchande_ is difficult, and i can only guess at the sense. _feorthe_ is shirley's spelling of _ferthe_, i.e. fourth. _merchande_ is probably equivalent to o.f. _marchandie_ or _marchandise_. godefroy gives an example of the latter in the sense of 'merchant's company.' i suppose that _feorthe merchande_ means 'fourth meeting of merchants,' or the fourth of the four quarterly meetings of a guild. toulmin smith, in his english gilds, p. , says that quarterly meetings for business were common; though some guilds met only once, twice, or thrice in the course of a year. the vintry is described by stow in his survey of london (ed. thoms, p. ): 'then next over against st. martin's church, is a large house built of stone and timber, with vaults for the stowage of wines, and is called the vintry.... in this house henry picard [lord mayor in - ] feasted four kings in one day.' i need not repeat here what i have already said about scogan in vol. i. p. . i may add to the note about lewis john (vol. i. p. ), that he was a person of some note. in (feb. ), 'ludowicus johan, armiger, constitutus est seneschall et receptor generalis ducatus cornub.': see ordinances of the privy council, iii. . he is further mentioned in the same, ii. , . chaucer's balade on gentilesse, quoted in full in ll. - , is in seven-line stanzas; and is thus distinguished from the rest of the poem, which is written in eight-line stanzas. it may be noted that scogan's rimes are extremely correct, if we compare them with chaucer's as a standard. of this piece there are two early printed copies, one by caxton, and one by thynne ( ); and two mss., ashmole and harl. . it is remarkable that the printed copies are better than the mss. as regards readings. § . viii. the complaint of the black knight. such is the title in thynne's edition ( ). in ms. f. (fairfax ), it is entitled--'complaynte of a loveres lyfe'; and there is a printed edition with the title--'the complaynte of a louers lyfe. imprynted at london in the flete strete at the sygne of the sonne, by wynkyn de worde'; no date, to. on twelve leaves. in ms. s. (arch. selden, b. ), there is an erroneous colophon--'here endith the maying and disporte of chaucere'; which gives the wrong title, and assigns it to the wrong author. in accordance with the last ms., it was printed, with the erroneous title--'here begynnys the mayng or disport of chaucer'--in a volume 'imprentit in the south gait of edinburgh be walter chepman and androw myllar the fourth day of ap_er_ile the yhere of god . m.ccccc. and viii yheris' [ ]; and this scarce copy was reprinted as piece no. in the knightly tale of golagrus and gawane, &c., as reprinted by laing in . but the fullest title is that in ms. ad. (addit. ), written out by john shirley, who says: 'and here filowyng begynnethe a right lusty amorous balade, made in wyse of a complaynt of a right worshipfull_e_ knyght that truly euer serued his lady, enduryng grete disese by fals envye and malebouche; made by lydegate' (fol. , back). some of the pages have the heading, 'the compleynte of a knight made by lidegate[ ].' this attribution of the poem to lydgate, by so good a judge as shirley, renders the authorship certain; and the ascription is fully confirmed by strong internal evidence. much of it is in lydgate's best manner, and his imitation of chaucer is, in places, very close; while, at the same time, it is easy to point out non-chaucerian rimes, such as _whyte_, _brighte_, ; _pitously_, _malady_ (ch. _maladyë_), ; _felyngly_, _malady_, ; _mente_, _diligent_, ; _grace_, _alas_, ; _seyn_, _payn_ (ch. _peynë_), ; _diurnal_, _fal_, (ch. _falle_), ; _payn_, _agayn_, ; _queen_ (ch. _quene_), _seen_, . besides which, there are two mere assonances in two consecutive stanzas, viz. _forjuged_, _excused_, ; and _wreke_, _clepe_, . the occurrence of this pair of assonances is quite enough to settle the question. if we apply a more delicate test, we may observe that, in ll. - , the word _s[=o]re_ (with long _o_) rimes with _tore_, in which the _o_ was originally short; on this point, see vol. vi. p. xxxii. as to this poem, ten brink well remarks: 'his talent was fairly qualified for a popular form of the 'complaint'--a sort of long monologue, interwoven with allegory and mythology, and introduced by a charming picture of nature. his _complaint of the black knight_, which contains reminiscences from the romance of the rose, the book of the duchesse, and the parlement of foules, was long considered a production of chaucer's, and is still frequently included in editions of his works--although with reservations. the critic, however, will not be deceived by the excellent descriptive passages of this poem, but will easily detect the characteristic marks of the imitator in the management of verse and rhyme, and especially in the diffusiveness of the story and the monotony even of the most important parts.' § . lydgate's reminiscences of chaucer are often interesting. in particular, we should observe the passages suggested by the roman de la rose in ll. - ; for we are at once reminded of chaucer's _own version_ of it, as preserved in fragment a of the romaunt. after noticing that he uses _costey_ ( ) for the f. _costoiant_, where chaucer has _costeying_ ( ); and _attempre_ ( ) where chaucer has _attempre_ ( ), though one french text has _atrempee_, it is startling to find him reproducing ( ) chaucer's very phrase _and softe as veluët_ (r. r. ), where the french original has nothing corresponding either to _soft_ or to _velvet_! this clearly shews that lydgate was acquainted with fragment a of the english version, and believed that version to be chaucer's; for otherwise he would hardly have cared to imitate it at all. the date of this poem is discussed in the introduction to schick's edition of the temple of glas, by the same author; pp. c, cxii. he dates it in lydgate's early period, or about a.d. . the text is based upon thynne's edition, which is quite as good as the mss., though the spellings are often too late in form. the late excellent edition by e. krausser (halle, ) reached me after my text was printed. his text (from ms. f.) has much the same readings, and is accompanied by a full introduction and eleven pages of useful notes. § . ix. the flour of curtesye. this piece has no author's name prefixed to it in the first three editions; but in the fourth edition by stowe, printed in , the title is: 'the floure of curtesie, made by iohn lidgate.' probably stowe had seen it attributed to him in some ms., and made a note of it; but i know of no ms. copy now extant. few poems bear lydgate's impress more clearly; there can be no doubt as to its authorship. schick refers it to lydgate's early period, and dates it about - ; see his edition of the temple of glas, p. cxii. as it was written after chaucer's death (see l. ), and probably when that sad loss was still recent, we cannot be far wrong if we date it about ; and the black knight, a somewhat more ambitious effort, about . the 'flour of curtesye' is intended as a portrait of one whom the poet honours as the best of womankind. the character is evidently founded on that of alcestis as described in the prologue to the legend of good women; and throughout the piece we are frequently reminded of chaucer; especially of the legend, the complaint of mars, and the parliament of foules. the envoy presents a very early example of the four-line stanza, similar to that employed in gray's famous elegy. § . x. a balade in commendation of our lady. this piece is attributed to 'lidegate of bury' in the ashmole ms. no. ; and the ascription is obviously correct. it abounds with evident marks of his peculiar style of metre; for which see schick's introduction to the temple of glas, p. lvi. we note in it a few reminiscences of chaucer, as pointed out in the notes; in particular, it was probably suggested by chaucer's a b c, which furnished hints for ll. , , and . it is perhaps worth while to add that we have thus an independent testimony for the genuineness of that poem. as an illustration of lydgate's verse, i may notice the additional syllable after the cæsura, which too often clogs his lines. thus in l. we must group the syllables thus:-- wherefór : now pláynly : i wól : my stýlë : dréssë. similarly, we find _lícour_ in l. , _pítè_ ( ), _líving_ ( ), _bémës_ ( ), _gínning_ ( ), _mércy_ ( ), _gárden_ ( ), &c., all occupying places where a monosyllable would have been more acceptable. the poem is strongly marked by alliteration, shewing that the poet (usually in a hurry) took more than usual pains with it. in the seventh stanza ( - ) this tendency is unmistakably apparent. it is hardly possible to assign a date to a poem of this character. i can only guess it to belong to the middle period of his career; say, the reign of henry v. we have not yet obtained sufficient data for the arrangement of lydgate's poems. § . lines - are here printed for the first time. in the old editions, l. is succeeded by l. , with the result that _sion_ ( ) would not rime with _set afere_ ( ); but the scribe of the ashmole ms. was equal to the emergency, for he altered l. so as to make it end with _fuyrless thou sette vppon_, which is mere nonsense. thynne has _fyrelesse fyre set on_, which is just a little better. this addition of seven lines was due to my fortunate discovery of a new ms.; for which i was indebted to the excellent ms. 'index of first lines' in the british museum. this told me that a poem (hitherto unrecognised) existed in ms. sloane , of which the first line is 'a thousand stories,' &c. on examining the ms., it turned out to be a copy, on paper, of hoccleve's de regimine principum, with four leaves of vellum at the beginning, and two more at the end, covered with writing of an older character. the two vellum leaves at the end were then transposed, but have since been set right, at my suggestion. they contain a few lines of the conclusion of some other piece, followed by the unique _complete_ copy of the present balade. this copy turned out to be much the best, and restored several of the readings. indeed, the ashmole ms. is very imperfect, having in it a lacuna of eight stanzas (ll. - ). i am thus able to give quite a presentable text. the correction that most interested me was one in l. , where the ashmole ms. and thynne have _probatyf piscyne_. on june , , i read a paper at the philological society, in which (among other things) i pointed out that the right reading must certainly be _probatik_. the very next day i found the sloane ms.; and behold, its reading was _probatyk_! it is not often that a 'conjectural emendation' is confirmed, on unimpeachable authority, within twenty-four hours. another remarkable correction is that of _dyamaunt_ for _dyametre_ in l. . it was all very well to compare our lady to a diamond; but to call her a _diameter_ (as in all the editions) is a little too bad. again, in l. (now first printed) we have the remarkable expression _punical pome_ for a pomegranate, which is worthy of notice; and in l. we find a new word, _agnelet_, which is not to be found in the new english dictionary. all the printed editions print the next piece as if it _formed a part_ of the present one; but they have absolutely no point in common beyond the fact of having a common authorship. § . xi. to my soverain lady. in all the old editions, this piece forms part of the preceding, though it is obviously distinct from it, when attention is once drawn to the fact. instead of being addressed, like no. x, to the virgin, it is addressed to a lady whose name the poet wishes to commend (l. ); and from whom he is parted ( ); whereas two lovers ought to be together, if they wish to live 'well merry' ( ). her goodly fresh face is a merry mirror ( ); and he has chosen her as his valentine ( ). it is evidently a conventional complimentary poem, written to please some lady of rank or of high renown ( ), one, in fact, who is 'of women chief princesse' ( ). it is prettily expressed, and does lydgate some credit, being a favourable specimen of his more playful style; i wish we had more of the same kind. l. --'let him go love, and see wher [_whether_] it be game'--is excellent. i shall here submit to the reader a pure guess, for what it is worth. my impression is that this piece, being a complimentary valentine, was suggested by queen katherine's visit to england; the lover whose passion is here described being no other than king henry v, who was parted from his queen for a week. the pair arrived at dover on feb. , , and henry went on to london, arriving on feb. ; the queen did not arrive till feb. , just in time for her coronation on feb. . this hypothesis satisfies several conditions. it explains why the lover's _english_ is not good enough to praise the lady; why so many french lines are quoted; the significant allusion to the lily, i.e. the lily of france, in l. ; the lover's consolation found in english roundels ( ); the expression 'cheef princesse' in l. ; and the very remarkable exclamation of _salve, regina_, in l. , which doubtless made thynne imagine that the poem was addressed to the virgin mary. the expression 'for your departing' in l. does not necessarily mean 'on account of your departure from me'; it is equally in accordance with middle-english usage to suppose that it means 'on account of your separation from me'; see _depart_ and _departing_ in the new english dictionary. it is well known that lydgate provided the necessary poetry for the entry of henry vi into london in feb. . some resemblances to chaucer are pointed out in the notes. the most interesting circumstance about this poem is that the author quotes, at the end of his third stanza, the first line of 'merciles beautè'; this is a strong point in favour of the attribution of that poem to his master. this piece is distinguished from the preceding by the difference of its subject; by the difference in the character of the metre (there is here no alliteration); and, most significant of all, by its absence from ms. ashmole and ms. sloane , both of which contain the preceding piece. the two poems may have been brought together, in the ms. which thynne followed, by the accident of being written about the same time. § . xii. ballad of good counsel. the title of this piece in stowe's edition stands as follows: 'a balade of good counseile, translated out of latin verses into englishe, by dan iohn lidgat cleped the monke of buri.' what were the latin verses here referred to, i have no means of ascertaining. this ballad is eminently characteristic of lydgate's style, and by no means the worst of its kind. when he once gets hold of a refrain that pleases him, he canters merrily along till he has absolutely no more to say. i think he must have enjoyed writing it, and that he wrote it to please himself. he transgresses one of chaucer's canons in ll. - ; where he rimes _hardy_ with _foly_ and _flatery_. the two latter words are, in chaucer, _foly-ë_ and _flatery-ë_, and never rime with a word like _hardy_, which has no final _-e_. lydgate is very fond of what may be called _catalogues_; he begins by enumerating every kind of possibility. you may be rich, or strong, or prudent, &c.; or fair ( ) or ugly ( ); you may have a wife ( ), or you may not ( ); you may be fat ( ), or you may be lean ( ); or staid ( ), or holy ( ); your dress may be presentable ( ), or poor ( ), or middling ( ); you may speak much ( ) or little ( ); and so on; for it is hard to come to an end. at l. , he begins all over again with womankind; and the conclusion is, that you should govern your tongue, and never listen to slander. thynne's text is not very good; the mss. are somewhat better. he makes the odd mistake of printing _holynesse beautie_ for _eleynes beaute_ ( ); but helen had not much to do with holiness. two of the stanzas ( - and - ) are now printed for the first time, as they occur in the mss. only. indeed, ms. h. (harl. ) is the sole authority for the former of these two stanzas. § . xiii. beware of doubleness. this is a favourable example of lydgate's better style; and is written with unusual smoothness, owing to the shortness of the lines. it was first printed in . there is a better copy in the fairfax ms., which has been taken as the basis of the text. the copy in ms. ashmole is very poor. the title--'balade made by lydgate'--occurs in ms. addit. . stowe, being unacquainted with the phrase _ambes as_ (l. ), though it occurs in chaucer, turned _ambes_ into _lombes_, after which he wrongly inserted a comma; and _lombes_ appears, accordingly, in all former editions, with a comma after it. what sense readers have hitherto made of this line, i am at a loss to conjecture. § . xiv. a balade: warning men, etc. first printed by stowe in , from the ms. in trinity college library, marked r. . , which i have used in preference to the printed edition. there is another, and more complete copy in the same library, marked o. . , which has contributed some excellent corrections. moreover, it gives a better arrangement of stanzas three and four, which the old editions transpose. more than this, it contains a unique stanza ( - ), which has not been printed before. the poem also occurs in shirley's ms. harl. , which contains a large number of poems by lydgate; and is there followed by another poem of seven stanzas, attributed to lydgate. that the present poem is lydgate's, cannot well be doubted; it belongs to the same class of his poems as no. xii above. i find it attributed to him in the reprint of 'chaucer's poems' by chalmers, in . the substitution of the contracted and idiomatic form _et_ for the later form _eteth_ is a great improvement. it is due to ms. o. . , where the scribe first wrote _ette_, but was afterwards so weak as to 'correct' it to _etyth_. but this 'correction' just ruins the refrain. _et_ was no doubt becoming archaic towards the middle of the fifteenth century. two variations upon the last stanza occur in the bannatyne ms., fol. , back; see the print by the hunterian club, , pp. , . § . xv. three sayings. first printed by stowe; i know of no ms. copy. the first two sayings are attributed to lydgate; so we may as well credit him with the third. the second expresses the same statements as the first, but varies somewhat in form; both are founded upon a latin line which occurs in ms. fairfax (fol. ) and in ms. harl. (fol. ), and runs as follows:--'quatuor infatuant, honor, etas, femina, uinum.' note that these three sayings constitute the _only_ addition made by stowe to thynne in 'part i' of stowe's edition. see nos. , , in vol. i. p. . stowe introduced them _in order to fill a blank half-column_ between nos. and . § . xvi. la belle dame sans mercy. first printed in thynne's chaucer ( ). tyrwhitt first pointed out that it could not possibly be his, seeing that alan chartier's poem with the same name, whence the english version was made, could not have been written in chaucer's lifetime. chartier was born in , and was only fourteen years old at the time of chaucer's death. tyrwhitt further stated that the author's name, sir richard ros, was plainly given in ms. harl. , fol. , where the poem has this title:--'la belle dame sanz mercy. translatid out of frenche by sir richard ros.' i have not been able to find the date of the french original, as there is no modern edition of chartier's poems; but it can hardly have been written before , when the poet was only twenty-four years old; and the date of the translation must be later still. but we are not wholly left to conjecture in this matter. a short notice of sir richard ros appeared in englische studien, x. , written by h. gröhler, who refers us to his dissertation 'ueber richard ros' mittelenglische übersetzung des gedichtes von alain chartier la belle dame sans mercy,' published at breslau in ; of which dr. gröhler has most obligingly sent me a copy, whence several of my notes have been derived. he tells us, in this article, that his dissertation was founded on the copy of the poem in ms. harl. , which (in ) he believed to be unique; whereas he had since been informed that there are three other mss., viz. camb. ff. . , trin. coll. camb. r. . , and fairfax ; and further, that the trinity ms. agrees with the harleian as to misarrangement of the subject-matter[ ]. he also proposed to give a new edition of the poem in englische studien, but i am unable to find it; and dr. kölbing courteously informs me that it never appeared. dr. gröhler further tells us, that mr. joseph hall, of manchester, had sent him some account, extracted from the county history of leicestershire by nichols, of the family of roos or ros, who were lords of hamlake and belvoir in that county. according to nichols, the sir richard ros who was presumably the poet, was the second son of sir thomas ros; and sir thomas was the second son of sir w. ros, who married margaret, daughter of sir john arundel. if this be right, we gain the further information that sir richard was born in [ ], and is known to have been alive in , when he was twenty-one years old. the dates suit very well, as they suggest that the english poem was written, probably, between and , or at the beginning of the second half of the fifteenth century; which sufficiently agrees with the language employed and with the probable age of the mss. the date assigned in the new english dictionary, s.v. _currish_, is ; which cannot be far wrong. it can hardly be much later. § . the above notice also suggests that, as sir richard ros was of a leicestershire family, the dialect of the piece may, originally at least, have been north leicestershire. belvoir is situate in the n.e. corner of leicestershire, not far from grantham in lincolnshire, and at no great distance from the birthplace of robert of brunne. it is well known that robert of brunne wrote in a variety of the midland dialect which coincides, to a remarkable extent, with the form of the language which has become the standard literary english. now it is easily seen that la belle dame has the same peculiarity, and i venture to think that, on this account, it is worth special attention. if we want to see a specimen of what the midland literary dialect was like in the middle of the fifteenth century, it is here that we may find it. many of the stanzas are, in fact, remarkably modern, both in grammar and expression; we have only to alter the spelling, and there is nothing left to explain. take for example the last stanza on p. (ll. - ):-- 'in this great thought, sore troubled in my mind, alone thus rode i all the morrow-tide, till, at the last, it happèd me to find the place wherein i cast me to abide when that i had no further for to ride. and as i went my lodging to purvey, right soon i heard, but little me beside, in a gardén, where minstrels gan to play.' a large number of stanzas readily lend themselves to similar treatment; and this is quite enough to dissociate the poem from chaucer. the great difficulty about modernising chaucer is, as every one knows, his use of the final _-e_ as a distinct syllable; but we may search a whole page of la belle dame without finding anything of the kind. when sir richard's words have an extra syllable, it is due to the suffix _-es_ or the suffix _-ed_; and even these are not remarkably numerous; we do not arrive at _cloth-ës_, a plural in _-es_, before l. ; and, in the course of the first four stanzas, all the words in _-ed_ are _awak-ed_, _nak-ed_, _vex-ed_, _tourn-ed_, and _bold-ed_, none of which would be surprising to a student of elizabethan poetry. that there was something of a northern element in sir richard's language appears from the rime of _long-es_ with _song-es_, in ll. - ; where _longes_ is the third person singular of the present tense; but modern english has _belongs_, with the same suffix! again, he constantly uses the northern possessive pronoun _their_; but modern english does the same! § . another remarkable point about the poem is the perfect smoothness and regularity of the metre in a large number of lines, even as judged by a modern standard. the first line--'half in a dream, not fully well awaked'--might, from a metrical point of view, have been written yesterday. it is a pity that the poem is somewhat dull, owing to its needless prolixity; but this is not a little due to alan chartier. sir richard has only eight stanzas of his own, four at the beginning, and four at the end; and it is remarkable that these are in the seven-line stanza, while the rest of the stanzas have eight lines, like their french original, of which i here give the first stanza, from the paris edition of , p. . (see l. of the english version.) 'n'agueres cheuauchant pensoye, comme homme triste et douloreux, au dueil où il faut que ie soye le plus dolant des amoureux; puisque par son dart rigoureux la mort me tolli ma maistresse, et me laissa seul langoureux en la conduicte de tristesse.' i have cited in the notes a few passages of the original text which help to explain the translation. § . the text in thynne is a good one, and it seemed convenient to make it the basis of the edition; but it has been carefully controlled by collation with ms. ff. . , which is, in some respects, the best ms. i am not sure that thynne always followed his ms.; he may have collated some other one, as he professes in some cases to have done. ms. ff. . , the trinity ms., and thynne's principal ms. form one group, which we may call a; whilst the fairfax and harleian mss. form a second group, which we may call b: and of these, group a is the better. the mss. in group b sadly transpose the subject-matter, and give the poem in the following order; viz. lines - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - . the cause of this dislocation is simple enough. it means that the b-group mss. were copied from one in which three leaves, each containing six stanzas, were misarranged. the three leaves were placed one within the other, to form a sheet, and were written upon. then the outer pair of these leaves was turned inside out, whilst the second and third pair changed places. this can easily be verified by making a little book of six leaves and numbering each page with the numbers - , - , - , - , &c. (i.e. with lines on a page, ending with ), and then misarranging the leaves in the manner indicated. the copy in ms. harl. was printed, just as it stands, by dr. furnivall, in his volume entitled political, religious, and love poems, published for the e. e. t. s. in ; at p. . the text is there, accordingly, misarranged as above stated. there is another ms. copy, as has been said above, in ms. trin. coll. camb. r. . ; but i have not collated it. it seems to be closely related to ms. ff., and to present no additional information. not only do the mss. of the a-group contain the text in the right order, but they frequently give the better readings. thus, in l. , we have the odd line--'my _pen_ coud never have knowlege what it ment'; as given in ms. ff., the trinity ms., and thynne. the word _pen_ is altered to _eyen_ in mss. h. and f.; nevertheless, it is perfectly right, for the french original has _plume_; see the note on the line. other examples are given in the notes. in l. , ms. ff. alone has the right reading, _apert_. i had made up my mind that this was the right reading even before consulting that ms., because the old reading--'one wyse nor other, prevy nor _perte_'--is so extremely harsh. there is no sense in using the clipped form of the word when the true _and usual_ form will scan so much better. see c. t., f , ho. fame, . the trinity ms. gets out of the difficulty by a material alteration of the line, so that it there becomes--'in any wyse, nether preuy nor perte.' § . xvii. the testament of cresseid. i do not suppose this was ever supposed to be chaucer's even by thynne. line --'quha wait gif all that chaucer wrait was trew?'--must have settled the question from the first. no doubt thynne added it simply as a pendant to troilus, and he must have had a copy before him in the northern dialect, which he modified as well as he could. nevertheless, he gives us _can_ for the southern _gan_ in l. , _wrate_ for _wrote_ in l. , and has many similar northern forms. the poem was printed at edinburgh in with the author's name. the title is as follows--¶ the testament of cresseid, compylit be m. robert henrysone, sculemai-ster in dunfermeling. imprentit at edin = burgh be henrie charteris. md. xciii. the text is in to, ten leaves, black-letter. only one copy has been preserved, which is now in the british museum; but it was reprinted page for page in the volume presented by mr. chalmers to the bannatyne club in . the present edition is from this reprint, with very few modifications, such as _sh_ for _sch_, and final _-y_ for final _-ie_ in immaterial cases. all other modifications are accounted for in the footnotes below. no early ms. copy is known; there was once a copy in the asloan ms., but the leaves containing it are lost. thynne's print must have been a good deal altered from the original, to make it more intelligible. it is odd to find him altering _quhisling_ ( ) to _whiskyng_, and _ringand_ ( ) to _tynkyng_. i note all thynne's variations that are of any interest. he must have been much puzzled by _aneuch in_ (which he seems to have regarded as one word and as a past participle) before he turned it into _enewed_ ( ). but in some cases thynne gives us real help, as i will now point out. in l. , e. (the edinburgh edition) has--'quhill esperus reioisit him agane'; where _esperus_ gives no good sense. but thynne prints _esperous_, which at once suggests _esperans_ (hope), as opposed to _wanhope_ in the preceding line. in l. , e. has _frosnit_, which laing interprets 'frozen,' as if the pp. of _freeze_ could have both a strong and weak pp. suffix at the same moment! but thynne has _frounsed_, evidently put for _fronsit_, as used elsewhere by henryson in the fable of the paddock and the mous, l. :--'the mous beheld unto her _fronsit_ face.' a printer's error of _sn_ for _ns_ is not surprising. in ll. , , , e. has _gyis_ or _gyse_; but thynne has preserved the true chaucerian word _gyte_, which the printer evidently did not understand. it is true that in l. he turned it into _gate_; but when he found it recur, he let it alone. in l. , e. has _upricht_ (!); which thynne corrects. in l. , th. has _iniure_ for _iniurie_, and i think he is right, though i have let _injurie_ stand; _iniure_ is chaucer's form (troil. iii. ), and it suits the scansion better. in l. , thynne corrects _unto_ to _to_; and in l. , has _beuer_ for _bawar_. in l. , he has _syder_ for _ceder_. in l. , he has _plyte_ for _plye_, where a letter may have dropped out in e.; but see the note (p. ). in l. , his reading _tokenyng_ suggests that _takning_ (as in e.) should be _takining_ or _takinning_; the line will then scan. the contracted form _taikning_ occurs, however, in l. , where the word is less emphatic. note further, that in l. the original must have had _philogoney_ (see the note). this appears in the astonishing forms _philologie_ (e.), and _philologee_ (th.). laing prints _phlegonie_, which will neither scan nor rime, without any hint that he is departing from his exemplar. all his corrections are made silently, so that one cannot tell where they occur without reference to the original. for further information concerning robert henryson, schoolmaster of dunfermline, see the preface to david laing's edition of the poems and fables of robert henryson, edinburgh, ; and morley's english writers, , vol. vi. p. . he is supposed to have been born about , and to have died about . on sept. , , the venerable master robert henrysone, licentiate in arts and bachelor in decrees, was incorporated or admitted a member of the newly founded university of glasgow; and he is known to have been a notary public. perhaps the testament of cresseid was written about . it is a rather mature performance, and is his best piece. perhaps it is the best piece in the present volume. § . xviii. the cuckoo and the nightingale. of this piece there are several mss., which fall into two main classes: (a)--ff. (ff. . , in the camb. univ. library); t. (tanner ); th. (ms. used by thynne, closely allied to t.); and (b)--f. (fairfax ), and b. (bodley ), which are closely allied. there is also s. (selden, b. ) imperfect, which has readings of its own[ ]. of these groups, a is the better, and ms. ff. is, in some respects, the most important. nevertheless, ms. ff. has never been collated hitherto, so that i am able to give a somewhat improved text. for example, in all former editions lines and are transposed. in l. , the reading _haire_ (as in bell and morris) is somewhat comic (see the note). in l. , ms. ff. restores the true reading _hit_, i.e. hitteth. bell, by some accident, omits the stanza in which this word occurs. in vol. i. p. , i took occasion to complain of the riming of _now_ with _rescow-e_ in ll. - , according to bell. the right reading, however, is not _now_, but _avow-e_, which rimes well enough. ms. selden has _allowe_, which morris follows, though it is clearly inferior and is unsupported. on the other hand, ms. selden correctly, and alone, has _leve_ in l. ; but the confusion between _e_ and _o_ is endless, so that the false reading _loue_ creates no surprise. this poem is very interesting, and has deservedly been a favourite one. it is therefore a great pleasure to me to have found the author's name. this is given at the end of the poem in ms. ff. (the best ms., but hitherto neglected), where we find, in firm distinct letters, in the same handwriting as the poem itself, the remark--explicit clanvowe. remembering that the true title of the poem is 'the book of cupid, god of love[ ],' i applied to dr. furnivall, asking him if he had met with the name. he at once referred me to his preface to hoccleve's works, p. x, where sir john clanvowe and thomas hoccleve are both mentioned in the same document (about a.d. ). but sir john clanvowe died in , and therefore could not have imitated the title of hoccleve's poem, which was not written till . our poet was probably sir thomas clanvowe, concerning whom several particulars are known, and who must have been a well-known personage at the courts of richard ii and henry iv. we learn from wylie's hist. of henry iv, vol. iii. p. , that he was one of twenty-five knights who accompanied john beaufort (son of john of gaunt) to barbary in . this sir thomas favoured the opinions of the lollards, but was nevertheless a friend of 'prince hal,' at the time when the prince was still friendly to freethinkers. he seems to have accompanied the prince in the mountains of wales; see wylie, as above, iii. . in , he is mentioned as being one of 'vi chivalers' in the list of esquires who were summoned to a council by king henry iv; see the acts of the privy council, ed. nicolas, temp. henry iv, p. . (it may be noted that sir john clanvowe was a witness, in , to the will of the widow of the black prince; see testamenta vetusta, ed. nicolas.) § . it now becomes easy to explain the reference to the queen at woodstock, which has never yet been accounted for. the poem begins with the words--'_the god of love!_ ah benedicite,' quoted from chaucer, the title of the poem being 'the book of cupid, _god of love_,' as has been said; and this title was imitated from hoccleve's poem of . but there was no queen of england after henry's accession till feb. , , when the king married joan of navarre; and it was she who held as a part of her dower the manor and park of woodstock; see wylie, as above, ii. . hence the following hypothesis will suit the facts--namely, that the poem, imitating chaucer's manner, and having a title imitated from hoccleve's poem of , was written by sir thomas clanvowe, who held lollard opinions[ ] and was a friend (at one time) of henry of monmouth. and it was addressed to joan of navarre, henry's stepmother, queen of england from to , who held as a part of her dower the manor of woodstock. if so, we should expect it to have been written before april, , when thomas badby, the lollard, was executed in the presence of the prince of wales. further, as it was probably written early rather than late in this period, i should be inclined to date it in ; possibly in may, as it relates so much to the time of spring. i may add that the clanvowes were a herefordshire family, from the neighbourhood of wigmore. the only remarkable non-chaucerian word in the poem is the verb _greden_, to cry out (a.s. _gr[=æ]dan_); a word found in many dialects, and used by layamon, robert of gloucester, langland, and hoccleve. the poem is written in a light and pleasing style, which wordsworth has fairly reproduced. the final _-e_ is suppressed in _assay-e_ (l. ). the non-chaucerian rimes are few, viz. _gren-e_ and _sen-e_ as riming with _been_ ( - ), shewing that clanvowe cut down those dissyllables to _green_ and _seen_. and further, the forms _ron_ and _mon_ are employed, in order to rime with _upon_ ( - ); whereas chaucer only has the form _man_; whilst of _ran_ i remember no example at the end of a line[ ]. § . but there is one point about clanvowe's verse which renders it, for the fifteenth century, quite unique. in imitating chaucer's use of the final _-e_, he employs this suffix with unprecedented freedom, and rather avoids than seeks elision. this gives quite a distinctive character to his versification, and is very noticeable when attention has once been drawn to it. if, for example, we compare it with the parliament of foules, which it most resembles in general character, we find the following results. if, in the cuckoo and nightingale, we observe the first lines, we shall find (even if we omit the example of _hy-e_ in l. , and all the examples of final _-e_ at the end of a line) the following clear examples of its use:--_low-e_, _lyk-e_, _hard-e_, _sek-e_, _hol-e_ (twice), _mak-e_, _hav-e_, _wys-e_, _proud-e_, _grev-e_, _trew-e_, _hert-e_, i.e. examples, besides the examples of final _-en_ in _mak-en_, _bind-en_, _unbind-en_, _bound-en_, _destroy-en_. but in the first lines of the parliament of foules there are only examples of the final _-e_ in the middle of a line, viz. _lust-e_ ( ) and _long-e_ ( ), whilst of the final _-en_ there is none. the difference between and must strike even the most inexperienced reader, when it is once brought under his notice. however, it is an extreme case. yet again, if the _last_ lines in the cuckoo be compared with ll. - of the parliament (being the _last_ lines, if we dismiss the roundel and the stanza that follows it), we find in the former examples of final _-e_ and of _-en_, or in all, whilst in chaucer there are of final _-e_, and of _-en_, or in all; and this also happens to be an extreme case in the other direction, owing to the occurrence in the former poem of the words _egle_, _maple_, and _chambre_, which i have not taken into account. this suggests that, to make sure, we must compare much longer passages. in the whole of the cuckoo, i make about such cases of final _-e_, and such cases of final _-en_, or in all. in lines of the parliament of foules, i make about and such cases respectively; or about in all. now the difference between and is surely very marked. the cause of this result is obvious, viz. that chaucer makes a more frequent use of elision. in the first lines of the parl. of foules, we find elisions of _men'_, _sor'_, _wak'_, _oft'_ (twice), _red'_ (twice), _spek'_, _fast'_, _radd'_; i.e. examples; added to which, chaucer has _joy(e)_, _love_, _knowe_, _usage_, _boke_, at the cæsura, and suppresses the _e_ in _write_ (written). but in ll. - , clanvowe has (in addition to _love_, _make_, _lowe_, _make_ (twice), _gladde_ at the cæsura) only examples of true elision, viz. _fressh'_, _tell'_, and _mak'_ ( ). and further, we seldom find _two_ examples of the use of the final _-e_ in the _same_ line in chaucer. i do not observe any instance, in the parl. of foules, till we arrive at l. :--'took rest that mad-_e_ me to slep-_e_ faste.' but in clanvowe they are fairly common. examples are: of sek-_e_ folk ful hol-_e_ ( ); for every trew-_e_ gentil hert-_e_ free ( ); that any hert-_e_ shuld-_e_ slepy be ( ); i went-_e_ forth alon-_e_ bold-e-ly ( ); they coud-_e_ that servyc-_e_ al by rote ( ); and the like. in l. , we have even _three_ examples in _one_ line; some song-_e_ loud-_e_, as they hadd-_e_ playned. from all of which it appears that the critics who have assigned the cuckoo to chaucer have taken no pains whatever to check their opinion by any sort of analysis. they have trusted to their own mere opinion, without looking the facts in the face. § . i will point out yet one more very striking difference. we know that chaucer sometimes employs headless lines, such as: twénty bókes át his béddes héed. but he does so sparingly, especially in his minor poems. but in the cuckoo, they are not uncommon; see, e.g. lines , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . it is true that, in morris's edition, lines , , , , and are slightly altered; but in no case can i find that the alteration is authorised. and even then, this does not get rid of the _five consecutive_ examples in ll. - , which cannot be explained away. once more, i repeat, the critics have failed to use their powers of observation. i think the poem may still be admired, even if it be allowed that clanvowe wrote it some three years after chaucer's death. § . at any rate, it was admired by so good a judge of poetry as john milton, who of course possessed a copy of it in the volume which was so pleasantly called 'the works of chaucer.' that his famous sonnet 'to the nightingale' owed something to clanvowe, i cannot doubt. 'thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill' is, in part, the older poet's theme; see ll. - , - , - . even his first line reminds one of ll. , . if milton writes of may, so does clanvowe; see ll. , , , , , , , ; note especially l. . but the real point of contact is in the lines-- 'thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, first heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, portend success in love ... now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; as thou from year to year hast sung too late for my relief, yet hadst no reason why: whether the muse or love call thee his mate, both them i serve, and of their train am i.' with which compare:-- 'that it were good to here the nightingale rather than the lewde cukkow singe': ( ). 'a litel hast thou been to longe henne; for here hath been the lew[e]de cukkow, and songen songes rather than hast thou': ( ). 'ye, quod she, and be thou not amayed, though thou have herd the cukkow er than me. for, if i live, it shal amended be the nexte may, if i be not affrayed': ( ). 'and i wol singe oon of my songes newe for love of thee, as loude as i may crye': ( ). 'for in this worlde is noon so good servyse to every wight that gentil is of kinde': ( ). § . xix. envoy to alison. this piece has always hitherto been printed _without any title_, and is made to follow the cuckoo and the nightingale, as if there were some sort of connection between them. this is probably because it happens to follow that poem in the fairfax and tanner mss., and probably did so in the ms. used by thynne, which has a striking resemblance to the tanner ms. however, the poem is entirely absent from the cambridge, selden, and bodley mss., proving that there is no connection with the preceding poem, from which it differs very widely in style, in language, and in metre. i call it an envoy to alison. for first, it is an envoy[ ], as it refers to the author's 'lewd book,' which it recommends to a lady. what the book is, no one can say; but it may safely be conjectured that it was of no great value. and secondly, the lady's name was alison, as shewn by the acrostic in lines - ; and the author has recourse to almost ludicrous efforts, in order to secure the first four letters of the name. briefly, it is a very poor piece; and my chief object in reprinting it is to shew how unworthy it is of clanvowe, not to mention chaucer. we have no right even to assign it to lydgate. and its date may be later than . § . xx. the flower and the leaf. this piece many 'critics' would assign to chaucer, merely because they like it. this may be sentiment, but it is not criticism; and, after all, a desire to arrive at the truth should be of more weight with us than indulgence in ignorant credulity. it is of some consequence to learn, first of all, that it is hardly possible to separate this piece from the next. the authoress of one was the authoress of the other. that the assembly of ladies is longer and duller, and has not held its own in popular estimation, is no sound argument to the contrary; for it is only partially true. between the first eleven stanzas of the assembly and the first eleven stanzas of the present poem, there is a strong general resemblance, and not much to choose. other stanzas of the assembly that are well up to the standard of the flower will be found in lines - , - . the reason of the general inferiority of the assembly lies chiefly in the choice of the subject; it was meant to interest some medieval household, but it gave small scope for retaining the reader's attention, and must be held to be a failure. the links connecting these poems are so numerous that i must begin by asking the reader to let me denote the flower and the leaf by the letter f (= flower), and the assembly of ladies by the letter a (= assembly). the first point is that (with the sole exception of the nutbrown maid) no english poems exist, as far as i remember, written previously to , and purporting to be written by a woman. in the case of f. and a., this is assumed throughout. when the author of f. salutes a certain fair lady, the lady replies--'_my doughter, gramercy_'; . and again she says, '_my fair doughter_'; , , . the author of a. says she was one of five ladies; - , . again, she was a woman; . the author of a. and some other ladies salute lady countenance, who in reply says 'fair sisters'; . again, she and others salute a lady-chamberlain, who replies by calling them 'sisters'; ; &c. the poem a. is supposed to be an account of a dream, told by the authoress to a gentleman; with the exception of this gentleman, all the characters of the poem are _ladies_; and hence its title. the poem f. is not quite so exclusive, but it comes very near it; all the principal characters are ladies, and the chief personages are queens, viz. the queen of the leaf and the queen of the flower. the 'world of ladies' in l. take precedence of the nine worthies, who were merely men. a recognition of this fact makes the whole poem much clearer. but the most characteristic thing is the continual reference to colours, dresses, ornaments, and decorations. in f., we have descriptions of, or references to, white surcoats, velvet, seams, emeralds, purfils, colours, sleeves, trains, pearls, diamonds, a fret of gold, chaplets of leaves, chaplets of woodbine, chaplets of _agnus-castus_, a crown of gold, thundering trumpets, the treasury of prester john, white cloaks, chaplets of oak, banners of tartary-silk, more pearls, collars, escutcheons, kings-of-arms, cloaks of white cloth, crowns set with pearls, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. then there is a company all clad in one suit (or livery); heralds and poursuivants, more chaplets and escutcheons, men in armour with cloth of gold and horse-trappings, with bosses on their bridles and peitrels--it is surely needless to go on, though we have only arrived at l. . in a., we have much the same sort of thing all over again, though it does not set in before l. . then we meet with blue colours, an embroidered gown, and a purfil with a device. after a respite, we begin again at l. --'her gown was blue'; and the lady wore a french motto. diligence tells the authoress that she looks well in her new blue gown ( ). at l. , there is another blue gown, furred with gray, with a motto on the sleeve; and there are plenty more mottoes to follow. at l. we come to a paved floor, and walls made of beryl and crystal, engraved with stories; next, a well-apparelled chair or throne, on five stages, wrought of 'cassidony,' with four pommels of gold, and set with sapphires; a cloth of estate, wrought with the needle ( ); cloth of gold ( ); a blue gown, with sleeves wrought tabard-wise, of which the collar and the _vent_ (slit in front of the neck) are described as being like ermine; it was couched with great pearls, powdered with diamonds, and had sleeves and purfils; then we come to rubies, enamel, a great balas-ruby, and more of the same kind. again, it is useless to go further. surely these descriptions of seams, and collars, and sleeves, are due to a woman. the likeness comes out remarkably in two parallel stanzas. one of them is from f. , and the other from a. . 'as grete perles, round and orient, diamondes fyne and rubies rede, and many another stoon, of which i want the names now; and everich on her hede a riche fret of gold, which, without drede, was ful of statly riche stones set; and every lady had a chapelet,' &c. 'after a sort the coller and the vent, lyk as ermyne is mad in purfeling; with grete perles, ful fyne and orient, they were couched, al after oon worching, with dyamonds in stede of powdering; the sleves and purfilles of assyse; they were y-mad [ful] lyke, in every wyse.' i wonder which the reader prefers; for myself, i have really no choice. for i do not see how to choose between such lines as these following:-- and on i put my gere and myn array; f. . that ye wold help me on with myn aray; a. . _or_, so than i dressed me in myn aray; a. . as grete perles, round and orient; f. . with grete perles, ful fyne and orient; a. . and forth they yede togider, twain and twain; f. . see how they come togider, twain and twain; a. . so long, alas! and, if that it you plese to go with me, i shal do yow the ese; f. . and see, what i can do you for to plese, i am redy, that may be to your ese; a. . i thank you now, in my most humble wyse; f. . we thanked her in our most humble wyse; a. . besides these striking coincidences in whole lines, there are a large number of phrases and endings of lines that are common to the two poems; such as--_the springing of the day_, f. , a. ; _which, as me thought_, f. , a. ; _wel y-wrought_, f. , a. ; _by mesure_, f. , a. ; _i you ensure_, f. , , a. , ; _in this wyse_, f. , a. ; _i sat me doun_, f. , a. ; _oon and oon_, f. , a. , , ; _by and by_, f. , , a. ; _withouten fail_, f. , a. , ; _herself aloon_, f. , a. ; _ful demure_, f. , a. ; _to put in wryting_, f. , a. ; and others that are printed out in the notes. very characteristic of female authorship is the remark that the ladies vied with each other as to which looked the best; a remark which occurs in _both_ poems; see f. , a. . a construction common to both poems is the use of _very_ with an adjective, a construction used by lydgate, but not by chaucer; examples are _very rede_, f. ; _very good_, f. , ; _very round_, a. . it is tedious to enumerate how much these poems have in common. they open in a similar way, f. with the description of a grove, a. with the description of a garden with a maze. in the eighth stanza of f., we come to 'a herber that benched was'; and in the seventh stanza of a. we come to a similar 'herber, mad with benches'; both from the legend of good women. in f., the authoress has a waking vision of 'a world of ladies' ( ); in a. she sees in a dream the 'assembly of ladies.' in both, she sees an abundance of dresses, and gems, and bright colours. both introduce several scraps of french. in both, the authoress has interviews with allegorical or visionary personages, who address her either as daughter or sister. i have little doubt that the careful reader will discover more points of resemblance for himself. § . the chief appreciable difference between the two poems is that f. was probably written considerably earlier than a. this appears from the more frequent use of the final _-e_, which the authoress occasionally uses as an archaic embellishment, though she frequently forgets all about it for many stanzas together. in the former poem (f.) there seem to be about examples, whilst in the latter (a.) there are hardly [ ]. in almost every case, it is correctly used, owing, no doubt, to tradition or to a perusal of older poetry. the most important cases are the abundant ones in which a final _e_ is omitted where chaucer would inevitably have inserted it. for example, such a line as f. --from the same grove, where the ladyes come out--would become, in chaucer--from the sam-ë grov-ë wher the ladyes come out--giving at least twelve syllables in the line. the examples of the omission of final _-e_, where such omission makes a difference to the scansion, are not very numerous, because many such come before a vowel (where they might be elided) or at the cæsura (where they might be tolerated). still we may note such a case as _green_ in l. where chaucer would have written _gren-e_, giving _a fresh gren-ë laurer-tree_, to the ruin of the scansion. similar offences against chaucer's usage are _herd_ for _herd-e_, (cf. ); _spek'_ for _spek-e_, ; _al_ for _all-e_, plural, ; _sight_ for _sight-e_, ; _lyf_ for _lyv-e_, ; _sam'_ for _sam-e_, ; _the tenth_ for _the tenth-e_, ; _gret_ for _gret-e_, plural, , ; _red_ for _red-e_, ; _the worst_ for _the worst-e_, ; _yed'_ for _yed-e_, , ; _fast_ for _fast-e_, ; _rejoice_ for _rejoy-se_, ; _noise_ for _nois-e_, ; _sonn'_ for _son-ne_, , ; _hir fresh_ for _hir fres-she_, ; _laft_ for _laft-e_, pt. t., ; _their greet_ for _hir gret-e_, ; _sick_ for _sek-e_, ; _about_ for _about-e_, ; _to soup_ for _to soup-e_, ; _without_ for _without-e_, , ; _the hool_ for _the hol-e_, ; _to know_ for _to know-e_, ; _past_ for _pass-ede_ or _past-e_, ; _my fair_ for _my fair-e_, vocative, , ; _to tel_ for _to tell-e_, ; _nin(e)_ for _nyn-e_, ; _imagin(e)_ for _imagin-en_, ; _they last_ for _they last-e_, ; _thy rud(e)_ for _thy rud-e_, . those who believe that the flower and the leaf was written by chaucer will have to explain away every one of these cases; and when they have done so, there is more to be said. § . for it is well known that such a word as _sweetly_ ( ) was trisyllabic, as _swet-e-ly_, in chaucer; c. t., a . similarly, our authoress has _trewly_ for _trew-e-ly_[ ], ; _richly_ for _rich-e-ly_, ; _woodbind_ for _wod-e-bind-e_, . similar is _ointments_ for _oin-e-ments_, . and, moreover, our authoress differs from chaucer as to other points of grammar. thus she has _forshronk_ as a strong pp., , which ought to be _forshronk-en_ or _forshronk-e_. still more marked is her use of _rood_ as the _plural_ of the past tense, , , where chaucer has _rid-en_; and her use of _began_ as a plural, , where chaucer has _bigonn-e_. can these things be explained away also? if so, there is more to be said. § . all the above examples have been made out, without so much as looking at the rimes. but the rimes are much harder to explain away, where they differ from chaucer's. here are a few specimens. _pas-se_ rimes with _was_, ; so it must have been cut down to _pas_! similarly, _hew-e_ has become _hew_; for it rimes with _grew_, sing., . _sight-e_ has become _sight_, to rime with _wight_, . _brought_ should rather be _brought-e_, but it rimes with _wrought_, . similar difficulties occur in _peyn_ (for _peyn-e_), r. w. _seyn_ ( ); _syd'_ for _syd-e_, r. w. _espy'd_ for _espy-ed_, ; _eet_, r. w. _sweet_ for _swet-e_, ; _not'_ for _not-e_, r. w. _sot_, ; _busily_, r. w. _aspy'_ for _aspy-e_, ; _trewly_, r. w. _armony'_ for _armony-e_, ; _orient_ (_oriant_?), r. w. _want_ for _want-e_, ; _person_ for _person-e_, r. w. _everichon_, . it is tedious to go on; let the critic finish the list, if he knows how to do it. if not, let him be humble. for there is more to come. § . besides the grammar, there is yet the pronunciation to be considered; and here comes in the greatest difficulty of all. for, in ll. - , we have the unusual rime of _tree_ and _be_ with _pretily_. this so staggered dr. morris, that he was induced to print the last word as _pretile_; which raises the difficulty without explaining it. for the explanation, the reader should consult the excellent dissertation by dr. curtis on the romance of clariodus (halle, ), p. , § . he remarks that a rime of this character gives evidence of the transition of m.e. long close _e_ to (italian) long _i_ [as in the change from a.s. _m[=e]_ to mod. e. _me_], and adds: 'this change became general in the fifteenth century, but had begun in some dialects at an earlier date.' its occurrence in the present poem is a strong indication that it is later than the year , and effectually disposes of any supposed connection with midland poems of the fourteenth century. both poems are remarkably free from classical allusions and from references to such medieval authors as are freely quoted by chaucer. there is nothing to shew that the authoress was acquainted with latin, though she knew french, especially the french of songs and mottoes. the flower and the leaf is chiefly famous for having been versified by dryden. the version is a free one, in a manner all his own, and is finer than the original, which can hardly be said of his 'versions' of palamon and arcite and the cock and the fox. it is doubtless from this version that many critics have formed exaggerated ideas of the poem's value; otherwise, it is difficult to understand for what reasons it was considered worthy of so great a master as geoffrey chaucer. § . it will be seen, from the notes, that the authoress was well acquainted with the prologue to the legend of good women; and it can hardly be questioned that she took the main idea of the poem from that source, especially ll. - of the later text. at the same time she was well acquainted with gower's lines on the same subject, in the conf. amantis, iii. , ; see vol. iii. pp. xlii, . gower has:-- 'me thoughte i sigh to-fore myn hede cupide with his bowe bent, and like unto a parlement which were ordeined for the nones, with him cam al the world atones[ ] of gentil folk, that whylom were lovers; i sigh hem alle there ... her hedes kempt, and therupon garlondes, nought of o colour, some of the lefe, some of the flour,[ ] and some of grete perles were.[ ] ... so loude that on every syde it thoughte as al the heven cryde[ ] in such accorde and suche a soun of bombard and of clarioun ... so glad a noise for to here. the grene leef is overthrowe[ ] ... despuiled is the somer fare,' &c. (p. ). § . xxi. the assembly of ladies. this has already been discussed, in some measure, in considering the preceding poem. both pieces were written by the same authoress; but the former is the more sprightly and probably the earlier. with the exception of the unusual rime of _tree_ with _pretily_ (discussed above), nearly all the peculiarities of the preceding poem occur here also. the chaucerian final _-e_ appears now and then, as in _commaund-e_ (probably plural), ; _red-e_, ; _countenanc-e_, ; _pen-ne_ [or else _seyd-e_], ; _chayr-e_, ; _tak-e_, ; _trouth-e_, ; _liv-e_, ; _sem-e_ (pr. s. subj.), . but it is usually dropped, as in _the fresh_ for _the fres-she_, ; &c. in l. , thynne prints _fantasyse_ for _fantasyes_; for it obviously rimes with _gyse_ (monosyllabic); cf. - . _hew-e_ and _new-e_ are cut down to _hew_ and _new_, to rime with _knew_, . _bold_ rimes with _told_, clipped form of _told-e_, ; and so on. so, again, _trewly_ appears in place of chaucer's _trew-e-ly_, . it is needless to pursue the subject. the description of the maze and the arbour, in ll. - , is good. another pleasing passage is that contained in ll. - ; and the description of a lady's dress in ll. - . as for the lady herself-- 'it was a world to loke on her visage.' there is a most characteristic touch of a female writer in lines - :-- 'so than i dressed me in myn aray, and asked her, _whether it were wel or no?_' to attribute such a question as 'how will my dress do' to a male writer is a little too dramatic for a mere narrative poem. the two mss. have now been collated for the first time and afford some important corrections, of which l. presents remarkable instances. ms. addit. is of some value. § . a considerable part of the assembly of ladies that is now of little interest may have been much appreciated at the time, as having reference to the ordering of a large medieval household, with its chambers, parlours, bay-windows, and galleries, carefully kept in good order by the various officers and servants; such as perseverance the usher, countenance the porter, discretion the chief purveyor, acquaintance the harbinger, largesse the steward, bel-cheer the marshal of the hall, remembrance the chamberlain, and the rest. the authoress must have been perfectly familiar with spectacles and pageants and all the amusements of the court; but she was too humble to aspire to wear a motto. 'and for my "word," i have non; this is trew. it is ynough that my clothing be blew as here-before i had commaundement; and so to do i am right wel content'; a. . we must not forget that the period of the wars of the roses, especially from to , was one during which the composition of these poems was hardly possible. it is obviously very difficult to assign a date to them; perhaps they may be referred to the last quarter of the fifteenth century. we must not put them too late, because the assembly exists in mss. that seem to be as old as that period. § . xxii. a goodly balade. for this poem there is but one authority, viz. thynne's edition of . he calls it 'a goodly balade of chaucer'; but it is manifestly lydgate's. moreover, it is really a triple balade, with an envoy, on the model of chaucer's fortune and compleynt of venus; only it has seven-line stanzas instead of stanzas of eight lines. an inspection of thynne's volume shews that it was inserted to fill a gap, viz. a blank page at the back of the concluding lines of the legend of good women, so that the translation of boethius might commence on a new leaf. it is obvious that the third stanza of the second balade was missing in thynne's ms. he did not leave it out for lack of space; for there is plenty of room on his page. that it is not chaucer's appears from the first balade, where the use of the monosyllables _shal_ and _smal_ in ll. and necessitates the use of the clipped forms _al_ for _al-le_, _cal_ for _cal-le_, _apal_ for _apal-le_, and _befal_ for _befal-le_. moreover, the whole style of it suggests lydgate, and does not suggest chaucer. the sixth stanza probably began with the letter _d_; in which case, the initial letters of the stanzas give us _m_, _m_, _m_; _d_, _d_, _d_; _j_, _c_, _q_. and, as it was evidently addressed to a lady named _margaret_ (see the notes), we seem to see here _margaret, dame jacques_. the name of _robert jacques_ occurs in the writs of parliament; bardsley's english surnames, nd ed., p. . of course this is a guess which it is easy to deride; but it is very difficult to account otherwise for the introduction of the letters _j_, _c_, _q_ in the third balade; yet it was evidently intentional, for much force was employed to achieve the result. to make the first stanza begin with _j_, recourse is had to french; and the other two stanzas both begin with inverted clauses. § . xxiii. go forth, king. i give this from thynne's first edition; but add the latin lines from the copy printed in schick's edition of the temple of glas, at p. . his text is from that printed by wynken de worde about , collated with the second and third prints from the same press at somewhat later dates, and a still later copy printed by berthelet. the only difference between thynne's text and that given by schick is that wynken de worde printed _ar_ in the last line where thynne has printed _be_. schick also notes that 'the chaucer-prints of and omit _thou_' in l. ; and i find that it is also omitted in the third edition (undated, about ). but it occurs in the edition of , all the same; shewing that the later reprints cannot always be relied upon. i have already said (vol. i. p. )--'surely it must be lydgate's.' for it exhibits his love for 'catalogues,' and presents his peculiarities of metre. dr. schick agrees with this ascription, and points out that its appearance in the four prints above-mentioned, in all of which it is annexed to lydgate's temple of glas, tends to strengthen my supposition. i think this may be taken as removing all doubt on the subject. § . i beg leave to quote here schick's excellent remarks upon the poem itself. 'there are similar pieces to these _duodecim abusiones_ in earlier english literature (see ten brink, _geschichte der englischen literatur_, i. , and note).[ ] the "twelf unþ[=e]awas" existed also in old-english; a homily on them is printed in morris, _old eng. homilies_, pp. - [ ]. it is based on the latin homily "de octo viciis et de duodecim abusivis huius saeculi," attributed to st. cyprian or st. patrick; see dietrich in niedner's _zeitschrift für historische theologie_, , p. ; wanley's _catalogus_, passim (cf. the index _sub voce_ patrick). in the middle-english period we meet again with more or less of these "abusions"; see morris, _old eng. miscellany_, p. ( abusions); furnivall, _early eng. poems_, berlin, (phil. soc.), p. ; "five evil things," wright and halliwell, _reliquiae antiquae_, i. , and ii. .' § . xxiv. the court of love. this piece was first printed by stowe in . stowe happened to have access to a ms. which was really a miscellaneous collection of middle-english pieces of various dates; and he proceeded to print them as being 'certaine workes of geffray chauser,' without paying any regard to their contents or style. in vol. i. pp. , , i give a list of his additions, numbered - [ ]. by good fortune, the very ms. in question is now in trinity college library, marked r. . . we can thus tell that he was indebted to it for the pieces numbered , , , , , , , , , , and . these eleven pieces are all alike remarkable for being non-chaucerian; indeed, no. is certainly lydgate's. but it has so happened that no. , or the court of love, being the best of these pieces, was on that account 'attributed' to chaucer, whilst the others were unhesitatingly rejected. and it happened on this wise. § . after tyrwhitt had edited the canterbury tales afresh, it occurred to him to compile a glossary. he rightly reasoned that the glossary would be strengthened and made more correct if he included in it all the harder words found in the _whole_ of chaucer's works, instead of limiting the vocabulary to words which occur in the canterbury tales only. for this purpose, he proceeded to draw up a list of what he conceived to be chaucer's _genuine_ works; and we must remember that the only process open to him was to consider all the old editions, and _reject_ such as he conceived to be spurious. hence his list is not really a list of genuine works, but one made by striking out from all previous lists the works which he _knew_ to be spurious. a moment's reflection will show that this is a very different thing. considering that he had only his own acumen to guide him, and had no access to linguistic or grammatical tests, still less to tests derived from an examination of rimes or phonology, it is wonderful how well he did his work. in the matter of rejection, he did not make a single mistake. his first revision was made by considering only the pieces numbered - , in the _first_ part of stowe's print (see vol. i. pp. - ); and he struck out the following, on the express ground that they were _known to have been written by other authors_; viz. nos. , , , , , , , , , and [ ]. then he went over the list again, and struck out, on internal evidence, nos. , , , , and [ ]. truly, here was a noble beginning! the only non-chaucerian pieces which he failed to reject explicitly, among nos. - , were the following, viz. (a goodly balade of chaucer), (the complaint of the black knight), (the testament of love), (the cuckoo and the nightingale), (go forth, king), and (a balade in praise of chaucer). of course he rejected the last of these, but it was not worth his while to say so; and, in the same way, he tacitly rejected or ignored nos. , , and . hence it was that nos. , , , and did not appear in moxon's chaucer, and even no. was carefully excluded. in his final list, out of nos. - , tyrwhitt actually got rid of all but nos. , , and (the black knight, the testament of love, and the cuckoo). as to the remaining articles, he accepted, among the longer pieces, nos. , , and , i.e. the court of love, chaucer's dream, and the flower and the leaf; to which he added nos. , , and (as to which there is no doubt), and also the virelai (no. ), on the slippery ground that it _is_ a virelai (which, strictly speaking, it is not). § . one result of his investigations was that an edition of chaucer was published by moxon (my copy is dated ), in which all the poems were included which tyrwhitt accepted, followed by tyrwhitt's account of the works of chaucer. owing to the popularity of this edition, many scholars accepted the poems contained in it as being certainly genuine; but it is obvious that this was a very risky thing to do, in the absence of external evidence; especially when it is remembered that tyrwhitt merely wanted to illustrate his glossary to the canterbury tales by adding words from other texts. the idea of drawing up a canon by the process of striking out from luxuriant lists the names of pieces that are obviously spurious, is one that should never have found acceptance. § . there is only one correct method of drawing up a canon of genuine works, viz. that adopted by mr. henry bradshaw, formerly our cambridge university librarian. it is simple enough, viz. to take a clean sheet of paper, and enter upon it, first of all, the names of all the pieces that are admittedly genuine; and then to see if it can fairly be augmented by adding such pieces as have reasonable evidence in their favour. in making a list of this character, the court of love has no claim to be considered at all, as i fully proved about twenty years ago[ ]; and there is an end of the matter. the ms. copy is in a hand of the sixteenth century[ ], and there is no internal evidence to suggest an earlier date. § . our task is to determine what it really is, and what can be made of it as it stands. we learn from the author that he was 'a clerk of cambridge' ( ), which we may readily accept. beyond this, there is nothing but internal evidence; but of this there is much. that our 'clerk' had read ovid and maximian appears from the notes; he even seems to have imbibed something of 'the new learning,' as he makes up the names philo-genet and philo-bone by help of a greek adjective[ ]. dr. schick has made it clear that he was well acquainted with lydgate's temple of glas, which he imitates freely; see schick's edition of that poem, p. cxxix. mr. j. t. t. brown, in his criticism on 'the authorship of the kingis quair,' glasgow, , draws many parallels between the court of love and the kingis quair, and concludes that the kingis quair was indebted to the court of love; but it is tolerably certain that the indebtedness was in the other direction. for, in the kingis quair, some knowledge of the true use of chaucer's final _-e_ is still exhibited, even in a northern poem, whilst in the court of love, it is almost altogether dead, though the poem is in the midland dialect. i shall presently shew that our clerk, whilst very nearly ignoring the final _-e_, occasionally employs the final _-en_; but this he does in a way which clearly shews that he did not understand when to use it aright, a fact which is highly significant. i am much indebted to my friend professor hales for pointing out another very cogent argument. he draws attention to the numerous instances in which the author of the court of love fails to end a stanza with a stop. there is no stop, for example, at the end of ll. , , , , , , , , ; and only a slight pause at the end of ll. , , , , , , , , , , , &c. in chaucer's parlement of foules, on the other hand, there is but one stanza without a stop at the end, viz. at l. ; and but one with a slight pause, viz. at l. . the difference between these results is very marked, and would convince any mathematician. i should like to add that the same test disposes of the claims of the flower and the leaf to be considered as chaucer's; it has no stop at the end of ll. , , , , , , , , , , and has mere commas at the end of ll. , , , , , , , , , &c. in the assembly of ladies this departure from chaucer's usage has been nearly abandoned, which is one reason why that piece is in a less lively style. § . the sole ms. copy of the court of love belongs to the sixteenth century, and there is nothing to shew that the poem itself was of earlier date. indeed, the language of it is remarkably like that of the former half of that century. if it be compared with sackville's famous 'induction,' the metrical form of the stanzas is much the same; there is the same smoothness of rhythm and frequent modernness of form, quite different from the halting lines of lydgate and hawes. this raises a suggestion that the author may have learnt his metre from scottish authors, such as henryson and dunbar; and it is surprising to find him employing such words as _celsitude_ and _pulcritude_, and even riming them together, precisely as dunbar did (ll. - , and the note). one wonders where he learnt to use such words, if not from scottish authors. curiously enough, a single instance of the use of a northern inflexion occurs in the phrase _me thynkes_, . and i admit the certainty that he consulted the kingis quair. i have no space to discuss the matter at length; so shall content myself with saying that the impression produced upon me is that we have here the work of one of the heralds of the elizabethan poetry, of the class to which belonged nicholas grimoald, thomas sackville, lord surrey, lord vaux, and sir francis bryan. there must have been much fairly good poetry in the time of henry viii that is lost to us. tottell's miscellany clearly shews this, as it is a mere selection of short pieces, which very nearly perished; but for this fortunate relic, we should not have known much about wyat and surrey. sackville, when at cambridge, acquired some distinction for latin and english verse, but we possess none of it. however, sackville was not the author of the court of love, seeing that it was published in a 'chaucer' collection in , long before his death. the fact that our clerk was well acquainted with so many pieces by chaucer, such as the knight's tale, the complaint of pity, the legend of good women, troilus, and anelida, besides giving us reminiscences of the letter of cupid, and (perhaps) of the cuckoo and nightingale, raises the suspicion that he had access to thynne's edition of ; and it is quite possible that this very book inspired him for his effort. this suspicion becomes almost a certainty if it be true that ll. - are borrowed from rom. rose, - ; see note at p. . i can find no reason for dating the poem earlier than that year. § . however this may be, the chief point to notice is that his archaisms are affectations and not natural. he frequently dispenses with them altogether for whole stanzas at a time. when they occur, they are such as he found in chaucer abundantly; i refer to such phrases as _i-wis_ or _y-wis_; _as blyve_; the use of _ich_ for _i_ ( ); _besy cure_ ( ); _gan me dresse_ ( ; cf. c. t., g ); _by the feith i shall to god_ ( ; cf. troil. iii. ); and many more. he rarely uses the prefix _i-_ or _y-_ with the pp.; we find _y-born_ ( ), _y-formed_ ( ), _y-heried_ ( ), _y-sped_ ( ), all in chaucer; besides these, i only note _y-fed_ ( ), _y-ravisshed_ ( ), _y-stope_ ( ), the last being used in the sense of chaucer's _stope_. the most remarkable point is the almost total absence of the final _-e_; i only observe _his len-ë body_ ( ); _to serv-e_ ( ); _to dred-e_ ( ); and _in thilk-ë place_ ( ); the last of which is a phrase (cf. r. r. ). on the other hand, whilst thus abstaining from the use of the final _-e_, he makes large use of the longer and less usual suffix _-en_, which he employs with much skill to heighten the archaic effect. thus we find the past participles _holden_, ; _growen_, ; _yoven_ or _yeven_, ; _shapen_, , ; _blowen_, ; the gerunds _writen_, ; _dressen_, ; _byden_, ; _semen_, ; _seken_, ; _worshippen_, , and a few others; the infinitives _maken_, ; _byden_, ; _quyten_, , &c., this being the commonest use; the present plurals _wailen_, ; _foten_, ; _speden_, , &c.; with the same form for the first person, as in _wailen_, ; _bleden_, ; and for the second person, as in _waxen_, ; _slepen_, . occasionally, this suffix is varied to _-yn_ or _-in_, as in _exilyn_, v., ; _serchyn_, v., ; _spakyn_, pt. pl., ; _approchyn_, pr. pl., . this may be the scribe's doing, and is consistent with east anglian spelling. but the artificial character of these endings is startlingly revealed when we find _-en_ added in an impossible position, shewing that its true grammatical use was quite dead. yet we find such examples. a serious error (hardly the scribe's) occurs in l. : 'wheder that she me _helden_ lefe or loth.' _hold_ being a strong verb, the pt. t. is _held_; we could however justify the use of _held-e_, by supposing it to be the subjunctive mood, which suits the sense; but _held-en_ (with _-en_) is the _plural_ form, while _she_ is singular; and really this use of _-e_ in the subjunctive must have been long dead. in l. , we have a case that is even worse, viz. _i kepen in no wyse_; here the use of _-en_ saves a hiatus, but the concord is false, like the latin _ego seruamus_. in l. , the same thing recurs, though the scribe has altered _greven_ into _growen_[ ]; for this present tense is supposed to agree with _i_! a very clear case occurs in l. : _for if by me this mater springen out_; where the use of _-en_, again meant to save a hiatus, is excruciatingly wrong; for _mater_ is singular! this cannot be the fault of the scribe. other examples of false grammar are: _thou serven_, ; _thou sene_, . but the climax is attained in l. , where we meet with _thay kepten ben_, where the _-en_ is required for the metre. _kepten_, as a _past participle_, is quite unique; let us drop a veil over this sad lapse, and say no more about it[ ]. we may, however, fairly notice the constant use of the northern forms _their_ and _thaim_ or _theim_, where chaucer has _hir_ and _hem_. the use of _their_ and _them_ (not _thaim_) was well established by the year in literary english, as, e.g., in hawes and skelton. caxton uses all four forms, _hem_ and _them_, _her_ and _their_. § . i add a few notes, suggested by an examination of the rimes employed. the final _-e_ is not used at the end of a line. this is easily seen, if carefully looked into. thus _lette_ ( ) stands for _let_, for it rimes with _y-set_; _grace_ and _trespace_ rime with _was_, ; _kene_ rimes with _bene_, misspelling of _been_, ; _redde_, put for _red_, rimes with _spred_, ; _yerde_, put for _yerd_, rimes with _aferd_, ; _ende_ rimes with _frend_ and _fend_, ; and so on throughout[ ]. the following assonances occur: _here_, _grene_, ; _kepe_, _flete_, ; and the following rimes are imperfect: _plaint_, _talent_, _consent_, ; _frend_, _mynd_, ; _nonne_ (for _non_), _boun_, ; _like_ (_i_ long), _stike_ (_i_ short), ; and perhaps _hold_, _shuld_[ ], ; _hard_, _ferd_, . _hard_ is repeated, , ; , . a curious rime is that of _length_ with _thynketh_, ; read _thenk'th_, and it is good enough. noteworthy are these: _thryse_ (for chaucer's _thry-ës_), _wyse_, ; _hens_ (for chaucer's _henn-ës_), _eloquence_, ; _desire_, _here_, , ; _eke_, _like_, ; _tretesse_ (for chaucer's _tretys_), _worthinesse_, ; _write_, _aright_, ; _sey_ (i saw), _way_, . in one place, he has _discryve_, , to rime with _lyve_; and in another _discry_ (miswritten _discryve_, ), to rime with _high_. as in chaucer, he sometimes has _dy_, to die, riming with _remedy_, , and elsewhere _dey_, to rime with _pray_, ; and again _fire_, _fyr_, riming with _hyre_, , or with _desire_, , and at another time the kentish form _fere_ (borrowed from chaucer), with the same sense, r. w. _y-fere_, . the most curious forms are those for 'eye.' when it rimes with _degree_, , _see_, , we seem to have the northern form _ee_ or _e_; but elsewhere it rimes with _besily_, , _pretily_, , _wounderly_, , _dispitously_, , or with _i_, ; and the plural _yen_ (= _y'n_) rimes with _lyne_, . the sounds represented by _[=e]_ and _y_ obviously afford permissible rimes; that the sounds were not identical appears from ll. - , which end with _me_, _remedy_, _be_, _dy_, _company_ consecutively. § . perhaps an easier way for enabling a learner to recognise the peculiarities of the court of love, and the difference of its language from chaucer, is to translate some lines of it into chaucerian english. the effect upon the metre is startling. so thanne i went-ë by straunge and fer-rë contrees; . alceste it was that kept-ë there her sojour; . to whom obeyd-ën the ladies god-ë nynten-ë; . and yong-ë men fel-ë cam-ë forth with lusty pace; . o bright-ë regina, who mad-ë thee so fair? . and mercy ask-ë for al my gret-ë trespas; . this eight-ë-ten-ë yeer have kept yourself at large; . in me did never worch-ë trew-ë-ly, yit i; . and ther i sey the fres-shë quene of cartáge; . a! new-ë com-ën folk, abyde, and woot ye why; . than gan i me present-ë tofor-ë the king; . that thou be trew-ë from henn-es-forth, to thy might; . and nam-ë-ly haw-ë-thorn brought-ën both-ë page and grom-ë; . very many more such examples may be given. or take the following; chaucer has (l. g. w. ):-- for love ne wól nat countrepleted be. and this is how it reappears in c. l. :-- for love wil not be counterpleted, indede! here the melody of the line is completely spoilt. in the present state of our knowledge of the history of the english language, any notion of attributing the court of love to chaucer is worse than untenable; for it is wholly disgraceful. everything points to a very late date, and tends to exclude it, not only from the fourteenth, but even from the fifteenth century. at the same time, it will readily be granted that the poem abounds with chaucerian words and phrases to an extent that almost surpasses even the poems of lydgate. the versification is smooth, and the poem, as a whole, is pleasing. i have nothing to say against it, when considered on its own merits. § . space fails me to discuss the somewhat vexed question of the courts of love, of which some have denied the existence. however, there seems to be good evidence to shew that they arose in provence, and were due to the extravagances of the troubadours. they were travesties of the courts of law, with a lady of rank for a judge, and minstrels for advocates; and they discussed subtle questions relating to affairs of love, usually between troubadours and ladies. the discussions were conducted with much seriousness, and doubtless often served to give much amusement to many idle people. not unfrequently they led to tragedies, as is easily understood when we notice that the first of one set of thirty-one laws of love runs as follows:--'marriage cannot be pleaded as an excuse for refusing to love.' the reader who requires further information is referred to 'the troubadours and courts of love,' by j. f. rowbotham, m.a., london, swan sonnenschein and co., . it is perhaps necessary to observe that the said courts have very little to do with the present poem, which treats of a court of cupid in the chaucerian sense (leg. good women, ). even the statutes of the court are largely imitated from lydgate. § . pieces numbered xxv-xxix. xxv. virelay. this piece, from the trinity ms., belongs to the end of the fifteenth century, and contains no example of the final _-e_ as constituting a syllable. chaucer would have used _sore_ (l. ), _more_ (l. ), _trouth_ (l. ), as dissyllables; and he would not have rimed _pleyn_ and _disdayn_ with _compleyn_ and _absteyn_, as the two latter require a final _-e_. the rime of _finde_ with _ende_ is extraordinary. the title 'virelai' is given to this piece in moxon's chaucer, and is, strictly speaking, incorrect; in the ms. and in stowe's edition, it has no title at all! tyrwhitt cautiously spoke of it as being 'perhaps by chaucer'; and says that 'it comes nearer to the description of a _virelay_, than anything else of his that has been preserved.' this is not the case; see note to anelida, ; vol. i. p. . tyrwhitt quotes from cotgrave--'_virelay_, a round, freemen's song,' and adds--'there is a particular description of a _virlai_, in the _jardin de plaisance_, fol. xii, where it makes the _decima sexta species rhetorice gallicane_.' for further remarks, see p. . xxvi. prosperity: by john walton. 'to mr. [mark] liddell belongs the honour of the discovery of john walton as the author of the little poem on fol. [of ms. arch. seld. b. ]. the lines occur as part of the prologue (ll. - ) to walton's translation of boethius' _de consolatione_.'--j. t. t. brown, _the authorship of the kingis quair_, glasgow, ; p. . see the account of walton in warton's hist. e. poetry, sect. xx. the original date of the stanza was, accordingly, ; but we here find it in a late scottish dress. the ascription of it to 'chaucer,' in the ms., is an obvious error; it was written ten years after his death. xxvii. leaulte vault richesse. this piece, like the former, has no title in the ms.; but the words _leaulte vault richesse_ (loyalty deserves riches) occur at the end of it. if the original was in a midland dialect, it must belong to the latter part of the fifteenth century. even in these eight lines we find a contradiction to chaucer's usage; for he always uses _lent_, pp., as a monosyllable, and _rent-e_ as a dissyllable. it is further remarkable that he never uses _content_ as an adjective; it first appears in rom. rose, . xxviii. sayings. i give these sayings as printed by caxton; see vol. i. p. , where i note that caxton did not ascribe them to chaucer. they are not at all in his style. in ms. ashmole , fol. , i find a similar prophecy:-- _prophecia merlini doctoris perfecti._ whane lordes wol leefe theire olde lawes, and preestis been varyinge in theire sawes, and leccherie is holden solace, and oppressyou_n_ for truwe p_ur_chace; and whan the moon is on dauid stall, and the kynge passe arthures hall, than[ ] is [the] lande of albyon nexst to his confusyoun. it is extremely interesting to observe the ascription of these lines to _merlin_; see king lear, iii. . . xxix. balade. this poor stanza, with its long-drawn lines, appears in stowe at the end of 'chaucer's works.' in the trinity ms., it occurs at the end of a copy of the parlement of foules. § . an examination of the pieces contained in the present volume leads us to a somewhat remarkable result, viz. that we readily distinguish in them the handiwork of _at least_ twelve different authors, of whom no two are much alike, whilst every one of them can be distinguished from chaucer. these are: ( ) the author of the testament of love, who writes in a prose style all his own; ( ) the author of the plowmans tale and plowmans crede, with his strong powers of invective and love of alliteration, whose style could never have been mistaken for chaucer's in any age[ ]; ( ) the author of jack upland, with his direct and searching questions; ( ) john gower, with his scrupulous regularity of grammatical usages; ( ) thomas hoccleve, who too often accents a dissyllable on the latter syllable when it should be accented on the former; ( ) henry scogan, whose lines are lacking in interest and originality; ( ) john lydgate[ ], who allows his verse too many licences, so that it cannot always be scanned at the first trial; ( ) sir richard ros, who writes in english of a quite modern cast, using _their_ and _them_ as in modern english, and wholly discarding the use of final _-e_ as an inflexion; ( ) robert henryson, who writes smoothly enough and with a fine vein of invention, but employs the northern dialect; ( ) sir thomas clanvowe, who employs the final _-e_ much more frequently than chaucer or even gower; ( ) the authoress of the flower and the leaf and the assembly of ladies, to whom the final _-e_ was an archaism, very convenient for metrical embellishment; and ( ) the author of the court of love, who, while discarding the use of the final _-e_, was glad to use the final _-en_ to save a hiatus or to gain a syllable, and did not hesitate to employ it where it was grammatically wrong to do so. § . if the reader were to suppose that this exhausts the list, he would be mistaken; for it is quite easy to add at least one known name, and to suggest three others. for the piece numbered xxvi, on p. , has been identified as the work of john walton, who wrote a verse translation of boethius in the year ; whilst it is extremely unlikely that no. xxvii, written in lowland scottish, was due to henryson, the only writer in that dialect who has been mentioned above. this gives a total of _fourteen_ authors already; and i believe that we require yet two more before the virelai and the sayings printed by caxton (nos. xxv and xxviii) can be satisfactorily accounted for. as for no. xix--the envoy to alison--it _may_ be lydgate's, but, on the other hand, it may not. and as for no. xxix, it is of no consequence. moreover, it must be remembered that i here only refer to the selected pieces printed in the present volume. if we go further afield, we soon find several more authors, all distinct from those above-mentioned, from each other, and from chaucer. i will just instance the author of the isle of ladies, the authoress (presumably) of the lamentation of mary magdalen, the author of the craft of lovers, the 'man unknown' who wrote the ten commandments of love, and the author of the clumsy lines dignified by the title of the nine ladies worthy. it is quite certain that _not less_ than twenty authors are represented in the mass of heterogeneous material which appears under chaucer's name in a compilation such as that which is printed in the first volume of chalmers' british poets; which, precisely on that very account, is useful enough in its own peculiar way. § . i believe it may be said of nearly every piece in the volume, that it now appears in an improved form. in several cases, i have collated mss. that have not previously been examined, and have found them to be the best. the notes are nearly all new; very few have been taken from bell's chaucer. several are due to schick's useful notes to the temple of glas; and some to krausser's edition of the black knight, and to gröhler's edition of la belle dame, both of which reached me after my own notes were all in type. i have added a glossary of the harder words; for others, see the glossary already printed in vol. vi. in extenuation of faults, i may plead that i have found it much more difficult to deal with such heterogenous material as is comprised in the present volume than with pieces all written by the same author. the style, the grammar, the mode of scansion, the dialect, and even the pronunciation are constantly shifting, instead of being reasonably consistent, as in the genuine works of chaucer. any one who will take the pains to observe these points, to compile a sufficient number of notes upon difficult passages, and to prepare a somewhat full glossary, may thus practically convince himself, as i have done, that not a single piece in the present volume ought ever to have been 'attributed' to chaucer. that any of them should have been so attributed--and some of them never were--has been the result of negligence, superficiality, and incapacity, such as (it may be hoped) we have seen the last of. i wish once more to acknowledge my obligations to mr. e. b. nicholson, for the loan of his transcript of the praise of peace; to mr. bradley, for his discovery of the authorship of the testament of love and for other assistance as regards the same; to dr. e. krausser, for his edition of the complaint of the black knight; to dr. gröhler, for his dissertation on la belle dame sans mercy; and to professor hales for his kind help as to some difficult points, and particularly with regard to the court of love. * * * * * the testament of love. prologue. many men there ben that, with eeres openly sprad, so moche swalowen the deliciousnesse of jestes and of ryme, by queynt knitting coloures, that of the goodnesse or of the badnesse of the sentence take they litel hede or els non. soothly, dul wit and a thoughtful soule so sore have myned and graffed in my spirites, that suche craft of endyting wol not ben of myn acqueyntaunce. and, for rude wordes and boystous percen the herte of the herer to the in[ne]rest point, and planten there the sentence of thinges, so that with litel helpe it is able to springe; this book, that nothing hath of the greet flode of wit ne of semelich colours, is dolven with rude wordes and boystous, and so drawe togider, to maken the cacchers therof ben the more redy to hente sentence. some men there ben that peynten with colours riche, and some with vers, as with red inke, and some with coles and chalke; and yet is there good matere to the leude people of thilke chalky purtreyture, as hem thinketh for the tyme; and afterward the sight of the better colours yeven to hem more joye for the first leudnesse. so, sothly, this leude clowdy occupacion is not to prayse but by the leude; for comunly leude leudnesse commendeth. eke it shal yeve sight, that other precious thinges shal be the more in reverence. in latin and french hath many soverayne wittes had greet delyt to endyte, and have many noble thinges fulfild; but certes, there ben some that speken their poysye-mater in frenche, of whiche speche the frenche men have as good a fantasye as we have in hering of frenche mennes english. and many termes there ben in english, [of] whiche unneth we englishmen connen declare the knowleginge. how shulde than a frenche man born suche termes conne jumpere in his mater, but as the jay chatereth english? right so, trewly, the understanding of englishmen wol not strecche to the privy termes in frenche, what-so-ever we bosten of straunge langage. let than clerkes endyten in latin, for they have the propertee of science, and the knowinge in that facultee; and let frenchmen in their frenche also endyten their queynt termes, for it is kyndely to their mouthes; and let us shewe our fantasyes in suche wordes as we lerneden of our dames tonge. and although this book be litel thank-worthy for the leudnesse in travaile, yet suche wrytinges excyten men to thilke thinges that ben necessarie; for every man therby may, as by a perpetual mirrour, seen the vyces or vertues of other, in whiche thing lightly may be conceyved to eschewe perils, and necessaries to cacche, after as aventures have fallen to other people or persons. certes, [perfeccion is] the soveraynest thing of desyre, and moste +creatures resonable have, or els shulde have, ful appetyte to their perfeccion; unresonable beestes mowen not, sith reson hath in hem no werking. than resonable that wol not is comparisoned to unresonable, and made lyke hem. for-sothe, the most soverayne and fynal perfeccion of man is in knowing of a sothe, withouten any entent disceyvable, and in love of oon very god that is inchaungeable; that is, to knowe and love his creatour. ¶ now, principally, the mene to bringe in knowleging and loving his creatour is the consideracion of thinges made by the creatour, wherthrough, by thilke thinges that ben made understonding here to our wittes, arn the unsene privitees of god made to us sightful and knowing, in our contemplacion and understonding. these thinges than, forsoth, moche bringen us to the ful knowleginge [of] sothe, and to the parfit love of the maker of hevenly thinges. lo, david sayth, 'thou hast delyted me in makinge,' as who sayth, to have delyt in the tune, how god hath lent me in consideracion of thy makinge. wherof aristotle, in the boke _de animalibus_, saith to naturel philosophers: 'it is a greet lyking in love of knowinge their creatour; and also in knowinge of causes in kyndely thinges.' considred, forsoth, the formes of kyndly thinges and the shap, a greet kindely love me shulde have to the werkman that hem made. the crafte of a werkman is shewed in the werke. herfore, truly, the philosophers, with a lyvely studie, many noble thinges right precious and worthy to memory writen; and by a greet swetande travayle to us leften of causes [of] the propertees in natures of thinges. to whiche (therfore) philosophers it was more joy, more lykinge, more herty lust, in kyndely vertues and maters of reson, the perfeccion by busy study to knowe, than to have had al the tresour, al the richesse, al the vainglory that the passed emperours, princes, or kinges hadden. therfore the names of hem, in the boke of perpetual memory, in vertue and pees arn writen; and in the contrarye, that is to sayne, in styx, the foule pitte of helle, arn thilke pressed that suche goodnesse hated. and bycause this book shal be of love, and the pryme causes of steringe in that doinge, with passions and diseses for wantinge of desyre, i wil that this book be cleped the testament of love. but now, thou reder, who is thilke that wil not in scorne laughe, to here a dwarfe, or els halfe a man, say he wil rende out the swerde of hercules handes, and also he shuld sette hercules gades a myle yet ferther; and over that, he had power of strengthe to pulle up the spere, that alisander the noble might never wagge? and that, passing al thinge, to ben mayster of fraunce by might, there-as the noble gracious edward the thirde, for al his greet prowesse in victories, ne might al yet conquere? certes, i wot wel, ther shal be mad more scorne and jape of me, that i, so unworthily clothed al-togider in the cloudy cloude of unconninge, wil putten me in prees to speke of love, or els of the causes in that matter, sithen al the grettest clerkes han had ynough to don, and (as who sayth) +gadered up clene toforn hem, and with their sharpe sythes of conning al mowen, and mad therof grete rekes and noble, ful of al plentees, to fede me and many another. envye, forsothe, commendeth nought his reson that he hath in hayne, be it never so trusty. and al-though these noble repers, as good workmen and worthy their hyre, han al drawe and bounde up in the sheves, and mad many shockes, yet have i ensample to gadere the smale crommes, and fullen my walet of tho that fallen from the borde among the smale houndes, notwithstandinge the travayle of the almoigner, that hath drawe up in the cloth al the remissailes, as trenchours, and the relief, to bere to the almesse. yet also have i leve of the noble husbande boëce, al-though i be a straunger of conninge, to come after his doctrine, and these grete workmen, and glene my handfuls of the shedinge after their handes; and, if me faile ought of my ful, to encrese my porcion with that i shal drawe by privitees out of the shocke. a slye servaunt in his owne helpe is often moche commended; knowing of trouth in causes of thinges was more hardyer in the first sechers (and so sayth aristotle), and lighter in us that han folowed after. for their passing +studies han fresshed our wittes, and our understandinge han excyted, in consideracion of trouth, by sharpnesse of their resons. utterly these thinges be no dremes ne japes, to throwe to hogges; it is lyflich mete for children of trouthe; and as they me betiden, whan i pilgrimaged out of my kith in winter; whan the +weder out of mesure was boystous, and the wylde wind boreas, as his kind asketh, with dryinge coldes maked the wawes of the occian-see so to aryse unkyndely over the commune bankes, that it was in poynte to spille al the erthe. thus endeth the prologue; and here-after foloweth the first book of the testament of love. . delyciousnesse; (_and elsewhere_, y _is often replaced by_ i). . none. . sothely. wytte. . inrest poynte. . spring. boke. great floode. . catchers. . hent. . afterwarde. . leudenesse. . comenly. . leudenesse. . gret delyte. . fulfylde. . englysshe. . englysshe; _supply_ of. englyssh-. . howe. borne. . englyssh. englyssh-. . stretche. . propertie. . facultie. lette. . boke. thanke worthy. . sene. . catche. . _i supply_ perfeccion is; _to make sense_. soueraynst. . creature (_sic_). reasonable. , . perfection. . sythe reason. . reasonable. . one. . nowe. meane. . be (_for_ by). . arne. . _i supply_ of. parfyte. . haste. . delyte (_this sentence is corrupt_). . saythe. . great. , . thyng_es_ co_n_sydred. forsoth (_sic_). . great. me (_sic_); _for_ men. . great. _supply_ of. . propertyes. . matters of reason. perfection. . treasour. . peace. . stixe. . boke. . dyseases. boke. . nowe. . set. . pul. . great. . wote. made. . vnworthely. . gathered. toforne. . made. great. plentyes. . reason. hayn (_sic_). . -thoughe. . hyer. . made. . gader. . fullyn. amonge. . remyssayles. . relyef. . great. . encrease. . priuytyes. . knoweyng. . study (_sic_). . reasons. . lyfelyche meate. . betiden (_sic_); _past tense_. . wether. measure. . wynde borias. kynde. . dryenge. . spyl. (_rubric_) boke. chapter i. alas! fortune! alas! i that som-tyme in delicious houres was wont to enjoye blisful stoundes, am now drive by unhappy hevinesse to bewaile my sondry yvels in tene! trewly, i leve, in myn herte is writte, of perdurable letters, al the entencions of lamentacion that now ben y-nempned! for any maner disese outward, in sobbing maner, sheweth sorowful yexinge from within. thus from my comfort i ginne to spille, sith she that shulde me solace is fer fro my presence. certes, her absence is to me an helle; my sterving deth thus in wo it myneth, that endeles care is throughout myne herte clenched; blisse of my joye, that ofte me murthed, is turned in-to galle, to thinke on thing that may not, at my wil, in armes me hente! mirth is chaunged in-to tene, whan swink is there continually that reste was wont to sojourne and have dwelling-place. thus witless, thoughtful, sightles lokinge, i endure my penaunce in this derke prison, +caitived fro frendshippe and acquaintaunce, and forsaken of al that any +word dare speke. straunge hath by waye of intrucioun mad his home, there me shulde be, if reson were herd as he shulde. never-the-later yet hertly, lady precious margarit, have mynde on thy servaunt; and thinke on his disese, how lightles he liveth, sithe the bemes brennende in love of thyn eyen are so bewent, that worldes and cloudes atwene us twey wol nat suffre my thoughtes of hem to be enlumined! thinke that oon vertue of a margarite precious is, amonges many other, the sorouful to comforte; yet +whyles that, me sorouful to comforte, is my lust to have nought els at this tyme, d[r]ede ne deth ne no maner traveyle hath no power, myn herte so moche to fade, as shulde to here of a twinkling in your disese! ah! god forbede that; but yet let me deye, let me sterve withouten any mesure of penaunce, rather than myn hertely thinking comfort in ought were disesed! what may my service avayle, in absence of her that my service shulde accepte? is this nat endeles sorowe to thinke? yes, yes, god wot; myn herte breketh nigh a-sonder. how shulde the ground, without kyndly noriture, bringen forth any frutes? how shulde a ship, withouten a sterne, in the grete see be governed? how shulde i, withouten my blisse, my herte, my desyre, my joye, my goodnesse, endure in this contrarious prison, that thinke every hour in the day an hundred winter? wel may now eve sayn to me, 'adam, in sorowe fallen from welth, driven art thou out of paradise, with swete thy sustenaunce to beswinke!' depe in this pyninge pitte with wo i ligge y-stocked, with chaynes linked of care and of tene. it is so hye from thens i lye and the commune erth, there ne is cable in no lande maked, that might strecche to me, to drawe me in-to blisse; ne steyers to steye on is none; so that, without recover, endeles here to endure, i wot wel, i [am] purveyed. o, where art thou now, frendship, that som-tyme, with laughande chere, madest bothe face and countenaunce to me-wardes? truely, now art thou went out of towne. but ever, me thinketh, he wereth his olde clothes, and that the soule in the whiche the lyfe of frendship was in, is drawen out from his other spirites. now than, farewel, frendship! and farewel, felawes! me thinketh, ye al han taken your leve; no force of you al at ones. but, lady of love, ye wote what i mene; yet thinke on thy servaunt that for thy love spilleth; al thinges have i forsake to folowen thyn hestes; rewarde me with a thought, though ye do naught els. remembraunce of love lyth so sore under my brest, that other thought cometh not in my mynde but gladnesse, to thinke on your goodnesse and your mery chere; +ferdnes and sorowe, to thinke on your wreche and your daunger; from whiche christ me save! my greet joye it is to have in meditacion the bountees, the vertues, the nobley in you printed; sorowe and helle comen at ones, to suppose that i be +weyved. thus with care, sorowe, and tene am i shapt, myn ende with dethe to make. now, good goodly, thinke on this. o wrecched foole that i am, fallen in-to so lowe, the hete of my brenning tene hath me al defased. how shulde ye, lady, sette prise on so foule fylthe? my conninge is thinne, my wit is exiled; lyke to a foole naturel am i comparisoned. trewly, lady, but your mercy the more were, i wot wel al my labour were in ydel; your mercy than passeth right. god graunt that proposicion to be verifyed in me; so that, by truste of good hope, i mowe come to the haven of ese. and sith it is impossible, the colours of your qualitees to chaunge: and forsothe i wot wel, wem ne spot may not abyde there so noble vertue haboundeth, so that the defasing to you is verily [un]imaginable, as countenaunce of goodnesse with encresinge vertue is so in you knit, to abyde by necessary maner: yet, if the revers mighte falle (which is ayenst kynde), i +wot wel myn herte ne shulde therfore naught flitte, by the leste poynt of gemetrye; so sadly is it +souded, that away from your service in love may he not departe. o love, whan shal i ben plesed? o charitee, whan shal i ben esed? o good goodly, whan shal the dyce turne? o ful of vertue, do the chaunce of comfort upwarde to falle! o love, whan wolt thou thinke on thy servaunt? i can no more but here, out-cast of al welfare, abyde the day of my dethe, or els to see the sight that might al my wellinge sorowes voyde, and of the flode make an ebbe. these diseses mowen wel, by duresse of sorowe, make my lyfe to unbodye, and so for to dye; but certes ye, lady, in a ful perfeccion of love ben so knit with my soule, that deth may not thilke knotte unbynde ne departe; so that ye and my soule togider +in endeles blisse shulde dwelle; and there shal my soule at the ful ben esed, that he may have your presence, to shewe th'entent of his desyres. ah, dere god! that shal be a greet joye! now, erthely goddesse, take regarde of thy servant, though i be feble; for thou art wont to prayse them better that wolde conne serve in love, al be he ful mener than kinges or princes that wol not have that vertue in mynde. now, precious margaryte, that with thy noble vertue hast drawen me in-to love first, me weninge therof to have blisse, [ther]-as galle and aloes are so moche spronge, that savour of swetnesse may i not ataste. alas! that your benigne eyen, in whiche that mercy semeth to have al his noriture, nil by no waye tourne the clerenesse of mercy to me-wardes! alas! that your brennande vertues, shyning amonges al folk, and enlumininge al other people by habundaunce of encresing, sheweth to me but smoke and no light! these thinges to thinke in myn herte maketh every day weping in myn eyen to renne. these liggen on my backe so sore, that importable burthen me semeth on my backe to be charged; it maketh me backwarde to meve, whan my steppes by comune course even-forth pretende. these thinges also, on right syde and lift, have me so envolved with care, that wanhope of helpe is throughout me ronne; trewly, +i leve, that graceles is my fortune, whiche that ever sheweth it me-wardes by a cloudy disese, al redy to make stormes of tene; and the blisful syde halt stil awayward, and wol it not suffre to me-wardes to turne; no force, yet wol i not ben conquered. o, alas! that your nobley, so moche among al other creatures commended by +flowinge streme +of al maner vertues, but ther ben wonderful, i not whiche that let the flood to come in-to my soule; wherefore, purely mated with sorowe thorough-sought, my-selfe i crye on your goodnesse to have pitè on this caytif, that in the in[ne]rest degree of sorowe and disese is left, and, without your goodly wil, from any helpe and recovery. these sorowes may i not sustene, but-if my sorowe shulde be told and to you-wardes shewed; although moche space is bitwene us twayne, yet me thinketh that by suche +joleyvinge wordes my disese ginneth ebbe. trewly, me thinketh that the sowne of my lamentacious weping is right now flowe in-to your presence, and there cryeth after mercy and grace, to which thing (me semeth) thee list non answere to yeve, but with a deynous chere ye commaunden it to avoide; but god forbid that any word shuld of you springe, to have so litel routh! pardè, pitè and mercy in every margarite is closed by kynde amonges many other vertues, by qualitees of comfort; but comfort is to me right naught worth, withouten mercy and pitè of you alone; whiche thinges hastely god me graunt for his mercy! ch. i. . enioy. . sondrye. . nowe. . disease outwarde. . comforte. . ferre. . hell. dethe. . endelesse. . hent. . swynke. . dwellynge-. wytlesse. . syghtlesse. prisone. . caytisned (_for_ caytifued). . wode (!); _for_ worde; _read_ word. . made. reason. herde. . disease. . beames. . _for_ be-went, th. _has_ be-we_n_t. . one. . wyl of; _apparently an error for_ whyles (_which i adopt_). luste. . dede (_for_ drede). . myne. . twynckelynge. disease. . lette (_twice_). dey. measure. . myne. comforte. . diseased. maye. aueyle. . endlesse. . wote; myne hert breaketh. . howe. grou_n_de. forthe. . howe. shippe. great. . howe. . nowe. sayne. . arte. weate. . stretche. . stey. endlesse. . wotte. _i supply_ am. spurveyde. arte. nowe. . frenshyppe (_sic_). . nowe arte. . weareth. . nowe. . leaue. . lythe. . frendes (_sic_); _for_ ferdnes: _cf._ p. , l. . . christe. . great. bounties. . hel. . veyned (_sic_); _for_ weyued. . shapte. nowe. . wretched. . heate. . wytte. . wote. . ease. sythe. . qualyties. . wote. wemme ne spotte maye. . _read_ unimaginable. . knytte. fal. . wol wel (_for_ wot wel). . sonded; _read_ souded. maye. . pleased. charyte. . eased. . comforte. fal. . out caste. daye. se. . flodde. . diseases. . perfectyon. knytte. dethe. . togyther is endelesse in blysse(!). dwel. . eased. . thentent. . great. nowe. . arte wonte. . nowe. haste. . _i supply_ ther. . folke. . encreasing. . forthe. , . trewly and leue; _read_ trewly i leve. . gracelesse. . disease. . halte. . (_the sentence beginning_ o, alas _seems hopelessly corrupt; there are pause-marks after_ vertues _and_ wonderful.) . folowynge; _read_ flowinge. by; _read_ of. . flode. . caytife. inrest. disease. lefte. . maye. . tolde. . ioleynynge (_sic_). . disease. . nowe. . the lyst none. . worde. . qualites of comforte. worthe. chapter ii. rehersinge these thinges and many other, without tyme or moment of rest, me semed, for anguisshe of disese, that al-togider i was ravisshed, i can not telle how; but hoolly all my passions and felinges weren lost, as it semed, for the tyme; and sodainly a maner of drede lighte in me al at ones; nought suche fere as folk have of an enemy, that were mighty and wolde hem greve or don hem disese. for, i trowe, this is wel knowe to many persones, that otherwhyle, if a man be in his soveraignes presence, a maner of ferdnesse crepeth in his herte, not for harme, but of goodly subjeccion; namely, as men reden that aungels ben aferde of our saviour in heven. and pardè, there ne is, ne may no passion of disese be; but it is to mene, that angels ben adradde, not by +ferdnes of drede, sithen they ben perfitly blissed, [but] as [by] affeccion of wonderfulnesse and by service of obedience. suche ferde also han these lovers in presence of their loves, and subjectes aforn their soveraynes. right so with ferdnesse myn herte was caught. and i sodainly astonied, there entred in-to the place there i was logged a lady, the semeliest and most goodly to my sight that ever to-forn apered to any creature; and trewly, in the blustringe of her looke, she yave gladnesse and comfort sodaynly to al my wittes; and right so she doth to every wight that cometh in her presence. and for she was so goodly, as me thought, myn herte began somdele to be enbolded, and wexte a litel hardy to speke; but yet, with a quakinge voyce, as i durste, i salued her, and enquired what she was; and why she, so worthy to sight, dayned to entre in-to so foule a dongeon, and namely a prison, without leve of my kepers. for certes, al-though the vertue of dedes of mercy strecchen to visiten the poore prisoners, and hem, after that facultees ben had, to comforte, me semed that i was so fer fallen in-to miserye and wrecched hid caytifnesse, that me shulde no precious thing neighe; and also, that for my sorowe every wight shulde ben hevy, and wisshe my recovery. but whan this lady had somdele apperceyved, as wel by my wordes as by my chere, what thought besied me within, with a good womanly countenance she sayde these wordes:-- 'o my nory, wenest thou that my maner be, to foryete my frendes or my servauntes? nay,' quod she, 'it is my ful entente to visyte and comforte al my frendshippes and allyes, as wel in tyme of perturbacion as of moost propertee of blisse; in me shal unkyndnesse never be founden: and also, sithen i have so fewe especial trewe now in these dayes. wherefore i may wel at more leysar come to hem that me deserven; and if my cominge may in any thinge avayle, wete wel, i wol come often.' 'now, good lady,' quod i, 'that art so fayre on to loke, reyninge hony by thy wordes, blisse of paradys arn thy lokinges, joye and comfort are thy movinges. what is thy name? how is it that in you is so mokel werkinge vertues enpight, as me semeth, and in none other creature that ever saw i with myne eyen?' 'my disciple,' quod she, 'me wondreth of thy wordes and on thee, that for a litel disese hast foryeten my name. wost thou not wel that i am love, that first thee brought to thy service?' 'o good lady,' quod i, 'is this worship to thee or to thyn excellence, for to come in-to so foule a place? pardè, somtyme, tho i was in prosperitè and with forayne goodes envolved, i had mokil to done to drawe thee to myn hostel; and yet many werninges thou madest er thou liste fully to graunte, thyn home to make at my dwelling-place; and now thou comest goodly by thyn owne vyse, to comforte me with wordes; and so there-thorough i ginne remembre on passed gladnesse. trewly, lady, i ne wot whether i shal say welcome or non, sithen thy coming wol as moche do me tene and sorowe, as gladnesse and mirthe. see why: for that me comforteth to thinke on passed gladnesse, that me anoyeth efte to be in doinge. thus thy cominge bothe gladdeth and teneth, and that is cause of moche sorowe. lo, lady, how than i am comforted by your comminge'; and with that i gan in teeres to distille, and tenderly wepe. 'now, certes,' quod love, 'i see wel, and that me over-thinketh, that wit in thee fayleth, and [thou] art in pointe to dote.' 'trewly,' quod i, 'that have ye maked, and that ever wol i rue.' 'wottest thou not wel,' quod she, 'that every shepherde ought by reson to seke his sperkelande sheep, that arn ronne in-to wildernesse among busshes and perils, and hem to their pasture ayen-bringe, and take on hem privy besy cure of keping? and though the unconninge sheep scattred wolde ben lost, renning to wildernesse, and to desertes drawe, or els wolden putte hem-selfe to the swalowinge wolfe, yet shal the shepherde, by businesse and travayle, so putte him forth, that he shal not lete hem be lost by no waye. a good shepherde putteth rather his lyf to ben lost for his sheep. but for thou shalt not wene me being of werse condicion, trewly, for everich of my folke, and for al tho that to me-ward be knit in any condicion, i wol rather dye than suffre hem through errour to ben spilte. for me liste, and it me lyketh, of al myne a shepherdesse to be cleped. wost thou not wel, i fayled never wight, but he me refused and wolde negligently go with unkyndenesse? and yet, pardè, have i many such holpe and releved, and they have ofte me begyled; but ever, at the ende, it discendeth in their owne nekkes. hast thou not rad how kinde i was to paris, priamus sone of troy? how jason me falsed, for al his false behest? how cesars +swink, i lefte it for no tene til he was troned in my blisse for his service? what!' quod she, 'most of al, maked i not a loveday bytwene god and mankynde, and chees a mayde to be nompere, to putte the quarel at ende? lo! how i have travayled to have thank on al sydes, and yet list me not to reste, and i might fynde on +whom i shulde werche. but trewly, myn owne disciple, bycause i have thee founde, at al assayes, in thy wil to be redy myn hestes to have folowed, and hast ben trewe to that margarite-perle that ones i thee shewed; and she alwaye, ayenward, hath mad but daungerous chere; i am come, in propre person, to putte thee out of errours, and make thee gladde by wayes of reson; so that sorow ne disese shal no more hereafter thee amaistry. wherthrough i hope thou shalt lightly come to the grace, that thou longe hast desyred, of thilke jewel. hast thou not herd many ensamples, how i have comforted and releved the scholers of my lore? who hath worthyed kinges in the felde? who hath honoured ladyes in boure by a perpetuel mirrour of their tr[o]uthe in my service? who hath caused worthy folk to voyde vyce and shame? who hath holde cytees and realmes in prosperitè? if thee liste clepe ayen thyn olde remembraunce, thou coudest every point of this declare in especial; and say that i, thy maistresse, have be cause, causing these thinges and many mo other.' 'now, y-wis, madame,' quod i, 'al these thinges i knowe wel my-selfe, and that thyn excellence passeth the understanding of us beestes; and that no mannes wit erthely may comprehende thy vertues.' 'wel than,' quod she, 'for i see thee in disese and sorowe, i wot wel thou art oon of my nories; i may not suffre thee so to make sorowe, thyn owne selfe to shende. but i my-selfe come to be thy fere, thyn hevy charge to make to seme the lesse. for wo is him that is alone; and to the sorye, to ben moned by a sorouful wight, it is greet gladnesse. right so, with my sicke frendes i am sicke; and with sorie i can not els but sorowe make, til whan i have hem releved in suche wyse, that gladnesse, in a maner of counterpaysing, shal restore as mokil in joye as the passed hevinesse biforn did in tene. and also,' quod she, 'whan any of my servauntes ben alone in solitary place, i have yet ever besied me to be with hem, in comfort of their hertes, and taught hem to make songes of playnte and of blisse, and to endyten letters of rethorike in queynt understondinges, and to bethinke hem in what wyse they might best their ladies in good service plese; and also to lerne maner in countenaunce, in wordes, and in bering, and to ben meke and lowly to every wight, his name and fame to encrese; and to yeve gret yeftes and large, that his renomè may springen. but thee therof have i excused; for thy losse and thy grete costages, wherthrough thou art nedy, arn nothing to me unknowen; but i hope to god somtyme it shal ben amended, as thus i sayd. in norture have i taught al myne; and in curtesye made hem expert, their ladies hertes to winne; and if any wolde [b]en deynous or proude, or be envious or of wrecches acqueyntaunce, hasteliche have i suche voyded out of my scole. for al vyces trewly i hate; vertues and worthinesse in al my power i avaunce.' 'ah! worthy creature,' quod i, 'and by juste cause the name of goddesse dignely ye mowe bere! in thee lyth the grace thorough whiche any creature in this worlde hath any goodnesse. trewly, al maner of blisse and preciousnesse in vertue out of thee springen and wellen, as brokes and rivers proceden from their springes. and lyke as al waters by kynde drawen to the see, so al kyndely thinges thresten, by ful appetyte of desyre, to drawe after thy steppes, and to thy presence aproche as to their kyndely perfeccion. how dare than beestes in this worlde aught forfete ayenst thy devyne purveyaunce? also, lady, ye knowen al the privy thoughtes; in hertes no counsayl may ben hid from your knowing. wherfore i wot wel, lady, that ye knowe your-selfe that i in my conscience am and have ben willinge to your service, al coude i never do as i shulde; yet, forsothe, fayned i never to love otherwyse than was in myn herte; and if i coude have made chere to one and y-thought another, as many other doon alday afore myn eyen, i trowe it wolde not me have vayled.' 'certes,' quod she, 'haddest thou so don, i wolde not now have thee here visited.' 'ye wete wel, lady, eke,' quod i, 'that i have not played raket, "nettil in, docke out," and with the wethercocke waved; and trewly, there ye me sette, by acorde of my conscience i wolde not flye, til ye and reson, by apert strength, maden myn herte to tourne.' 'in good fayth,' quod she, 'i have knowe thee ever of tho condicions; and sithen thou woldest (in as moch as in thee was) a made me privy of thy counsayl and juge of thy conscience (though i forsook it in tho dayes til i saw better my tyme), wolde never god that i shuld now fayle; but ever i wol be redy witnessing thy sothe, in what place that ever i shal, ayenst al tho that wol the contrary susteyne. and for as moche as to me is naught unknowen ne hid of thy privy herte, but al hast thou tho thinges mad to me open at the ful, that hath caused my cominge in-to this prison, to voyde the webbes of thyne eyen, to make thee clerely to see the errours thou hast ben in. and bycause that men ben of dyvers condicions, some adradde to saye a sothe, and some for a sothe anon redy to fighte, and also that i may not my-selfe ben in place to withsaye thilke men that of thee speken otherwyse than the sothe, i wol and i charge thee, in vertue of obedience that thou to me owest, to wryten my wordes and sette hem in wrytinges, that they mowe, as my witnessinge, ben noted among the people. for bookes written neyther dreden ne shamen, ne stryve conne; but only shewen the entente of the wryter, and yeve remembraunce to the herer; and if any wol in thy presence saye any-thing to tho wryters, loke boldely; truste on mars to answere at the ful. for certes, i shal him enfourme of al the trouthe in thy love, with thy conscience; so that of his helpe thou shalt not varye at thy nede. i trowe the strongest and the beste that may be founde wol not transverse thy wordes; wherof than woldest thou drede?' ch. ii. . disease. . tel howe. holy. . loste. . light. . feare. folke. . done. disease. . ferdenesse. . subiection. . maye. . disease. meane. . frendes; _read_ ferdnes; _see_ l. . perfytely. _i supply_ but _and_ by. . affection. . aforne. ferdenesse. . lodged. moste. . to-forne. . comforte sodaynely. dothe. . myne. beganne. . prisone. leaue. . al-thoughe. stretchen. . faculties. . ferre. . wretched hyd. thynge. . heauy. . wenyst. foryet. . naye. . frenshippes. alyes. . propertye. . nowe. , . maye. . nowe. . honny. paradise. . comforte. howe. . sawe. . the. disease haste. woste. . the. . worshyppe. the. thyne. . the. . graunt thyne. . nowe. . thyne. . thoroughe. . wotte. none. . se. . howe. . nowe. se. . wytte in the. _i supply_ thou. arte. . shepeherde. . shepe. arne. . amonge. . tho. shepe. loste. . put. . shepeherde. . put. forthe. let. loste. . shepeherde. lyfe. loste. . shepe. shalte. . mewarde. . throughe. . haste. radde howe. . so_n_ne. . _for_ false _read_ faire. howe sesars sonke (_sic_); _corrupt_. . louedaye. . chese. put. . howe. thanke. . rest. home; _read_ whom. . the. . haste. the. . ayenwarde. made. . put the. . the. reason. disease. . the. . shalte. haste. . haste. herde. howe. . folke. . cyties. the. cleape. . poynte. . nowe. . wytte. . se the in disease. . wote. arte one. maye. the. . thyne. . great. . byforne. . comforte. . please. . bearyng. . encrease. maye. . the. . great. wherthroughe. arte. arne no-thinge. . thus as i; _om._ as. . endeynous; _read_ ben deynous. wretches. . schole. . beare. the lythe. . the. . perfection. howe. . counsayle maye. hydde. . wote. . doone aldaye. . done. nowe. . the. . playde. . reason. aperte. . faythe. the. . the. . counsayle. . forsoke. . nowe. . hert. . made. . the. . se. . anone. fyght. maye. . withsay. the. . the. . amonge. . onely. . -thynge. . shalte. . maye. transuers. chapter iii. gretly was i tho gladded of these wordes, and (as who saith) wexen somdel light in herte; both for the auctoritè of witnesse, and also for sikernesse of helpe of the forsayd beheste, and sayd:-- 'trewly, lady, now am i wel gladded through comfort of your wordes. be it now lykinge unto your nobley to shewe whiche folk diffame your servauntes, sithe your service ought above al other thinges to ben commended.' 'yet,' quod she, 'i see wel thy soule is not al out of the amased cloude. thee were better to here thing that thee might lighte out of thyn hevy charge and after knowing of thyn owne helpe, than to stirre swete wordes and such resons to here; for in a thoughtful soule (and namely suche oon as thou art) wol not yet suche thinges sinken. come of, therfore, and let me seen thy hevy charge, that i may the lightlier for thy comfort purveye.' 'now, certes, lady,' quod i, 'the moste comfort i might have were utterly to wete me be sure in herte of that margaryte i serve; and so i thinke to don with al mightes, whyle my lyfe dureth.' 'than,' quod she, 'mayst thou therafter, in suche wyse that misplesaunce ne entre?' 'in good fayth,' quod i, 'there shal no misplesaunce be caused through trespace on my syde.' 'and i do thee to weten,' quod she, 'i sette never yet person to serve in no place (but-if he caused the contrary in defautes and trespaces) that he ne spedde of his service.' 'myn owne erthly lady,' quod i tho, 'and yet remembre to your worthinesse how long sithen, by many revolving of yeres, in tyme whan octobre his leve ginneth take and novembre sheweth him to sight, whan bernes ben ful of goodes as is the nutte on every halke; and than good lond-tillers ginne shape for the erthe with greet travayle, to bringe forth more corn to mannes sustenaunce, ayenst the nexte yeres folowing. in suche tyme of plentee he that hath an home and is wyse, list not to wander mervayles to seche, but he be constrayned or excited. oft the lothe thing is doon, by excitacion of other mannes opinion, whiche wolden fayne have myn abydinge. [tho gan i] take in herte of luste to travayle and see the wynding of the erthe in that tyme of winter. by woodes that large stretes wern in, by smale pathes that swyn and hogges hadden made, as lanes with ladels their maste to seche, i walked thinkinge alone a wonder greet whyle; and the grete beestes that the woode haunten and adorneth al maner forestes, and heerdes gonne to wilde. than, er i was war, i neyghed to a see-banke; and for ferde of the beestes "shipcraft" i cryde. for, lady, i trowe ye wete wel your-selfe, nothing is werse than the beestes that shulden ben tame, if they cacche her wildenesse, and ginne ayen waxe ramage. thus forsothe was i a-ferd, and to shippe me hyed. than were there y-nowe to lacche myn handes, and drawe me to shippe, of whiche many i knew wel the names. sight was the first, lust was another, thought was the thirde; and wil eke was there a mayster; these broughten me within-borde of this shippe of traveyle. so whan the sayl was sprad, and this ship gan to move, the wind and water gan for to ryse, and overthwartly to turne the welken. the wawes semeden as they kiste togider; but often under colour of kissinge is mokel old hate prively closed and kept. the storm so straungely and in a devouring maner gan so faste us assayle, that i supposed the date of my deth shulde have mad there his ginning. now up, now downe, now under the wawe and now aboven was my ship a greet whyle. and so by mokel duresse of +weders and of stormes, and with greet avowing [of] pilgrimages, i was driven to an yle, where utterly i wende first to have be rescowed; but trewly, +at the first ginning, it semed me so perillous the haven to cacche, that but thorow grace i had ben comforted, of lyfe i was ful dispayred. trewly, lady, if ye remembre a-right of al maner thinges, your-selfe cam hastely to sene us see-driven, and to weten what we weren. but first ye were deynous of chere, after whiche ye gonne better a-lighte; and ever, as me thought, ye lived in greet drede of disese; it semed so by your chere. and whan i was certifyed of your name, the lenger i loked in you, the more i you goodly dradde; and ever myn herte on you opened the more; and so in a litel tyme my ship was out of mynde. but, lady, as ye me ladde, i was war bothe of beestes and of fisshes, a greet nombre thronging togider; among whiche a muskel, in a blewe shel, had enclosed a margaryte-perle, the moste precious and best that ever to-forn cam in my sight. and ye tolden your-selfe, that ilke jewel in his kinde was so good and so vertuous, that her better shulde i never finde, al sought i ther-after to the worldes ende. and with that i held my pees a greet whyle; and ever sithen i have me bethought on the man that sought the precious margarytes; and whan he had founden oon to his lyking, he solde al his good to bye that jewel. y-wis, thought i, (and yet so i thinke), now have i founden the jewel that myn herte desyreth; wherto shulde i seche further? trewly, now wol i stinte, and on this margaryte i sette me for ever: now than also, sithen i wiste wel it was your wil that i shulde so suche a service me take; and so to desyre that thing, of whiche i never have blisse. there liveth non but he hath disese; your might than that brought me to suche service, that to me is cause of sorowe and of joye. i wonder of your worde that ye sayn, "to bringen men in-to joye"; and, pardè, ye wete wel that defaut ne trespace may not resonably ben put to me-wardes, as fer as my conscience knoweth. but of my disese me list now a whyle to speke, and to enforme you in what maner of blisse ye have me thronge. for truly i wene, that al gladnesse, al joye, and al mirthe is beshet under locke, and the keye throwe in suche place that it may not be founde. my brenning wo hath altred al my hewe. whan i shulde slepe, i walowe and i thinke, and me disporte. thus combred, i seme that al folk had me mased. also, lady myne, desyre hath longe dured, some speking to have; or els at the lest have ben enmoysed with sight; and for wantinge of these thinges my mouth wolde, and he durst, pleyne right sore, sithen yvels for my goodnesse arn manyfolde to me yolden. i wonder, lady, trewly, save evermore your reverence, how ye mowe, for shame, suche thinges suffre on your servaunt to be so multiplied. wherfore, kneling with a lowe herte, i pray you to rue on this caytif, that of nothing now may serve. good lady, if ye liste, now your help to me shewe, that am of your privyest servantes at al assayes in this tyme, and under your winges of proteccion. no help to me-wardes is shapen; how shal than straungers in any wyse after socour loke, whan i, that am so privy, yet of helpe i do fayle? further may i not, but thus in this prison abyde; what bondes and chaynes me holden, lady, ye see wel your-selfe. a renyant forjuged hath not halfe the care. but thus, syghing and sobbing, i wayle here alone; and nere it for comfort of your presence, right here wolde i sterve. and yet a litel am i gladded, that so goodly suche grace and non hap have i hent, graciously to fynde the precious margarite, that (al other left) men shulde bye, if they shulde therfore selle al her substaunce. wo is me, that so many let-games and purpose-brekers ben maked wayters, suche prisoners as i am to overloke and to hinder; and, for suche lettours, it is hard any suche jewel to winne. is this, lady, an honour to thy deitee? me thinketh, by right, suche people shulde have no maistrye, ne ben overlokers over none of thy servauntes. trewly, were it leful unto you, to al the goddes wolde i playne, that ye rule your devyne purveyaunce amonges your servantes nothing as ye shulde. also, lady, my moeble is insuffysaunt to countervayle the price of this jewel, or els to make th'eschange. eke no wight is worthy suche perles to were but kinges or princes or els their peres. this jewel, for vertue, wold adorne and make fayre al a realme; the nobley of vertue is so moche, that her goodnesse overal is commended. who is it that wolde not wayle, but he might suche richesse have at his wil? the vertue therof out of this prison may me deliver, and naught els. and if i be not ther-thorow holpen, i see my-selfe withouten recovery. although i might hence voyde, yet wolde i not; i wolde abyde the day that destenee hath me ordeyned, whiche i suppose is without amendement; so sore is my herte bounden, that i may thinken non other. thus strayte, lady, hath sir daunger laced me in stockes, i leve it be not your wil; and for i see you taken so litel hede, as me thinketh, and wol not maken by your might the vertue in mercy of the margaryte on me for to strecche, so as ye mowe wel in case that you liste, my blisse and my mirthe arn feld; sicknesse and sorowe ben alwaye redy. the cope of tene is wounde aboute al my body, that stonding is me best; unneth may i ligge for pure misesy sorowe. and yet al this is litel ynough to be the ernest-silver in forwarde of this bargayne; for treble-folde so mokel muste i suffer er tyme come of myn ese. for he is worthy no welthe, that may no wo suffer. and certes, i am hevy to thinke on these thinges; but who shal yeve me water ynough to drinke, lest myn eyen drye, for renning stremes of teres? who shal waylen with me myn owne happy hevinesse? who shal counsaile me now in my lyking tene, and in my goodly harse? i not. for ever the more i brenne, the more i coveyte; the more that i sorow, the more thrist i in gladnesse. who shal than yeve me a contrarious drink, to stanche the thurste of my blisful bitternesse? lo, thus i brenne and i drenche; i shiver and i swete. to this reversed yvel was never yet ordeyned salve; forsoth al +leches ben unconning, save the margaryte alone, any suche remedye to purveye.' ch. iii. . gladed; _see_ l. . . somdele. . nowe. comforte. . nowe. . folke. . se. . the (_twice_). . light. . one. arte. . sene. comforte. . puruey. . nowe. comforte. . mayste. . the. set. . howe. . leaue. . londe-. . great. forthe. corne. . plentie. lyste. . doone. . _i supply_ tho gan i. . se. . werne. . swyne. . great. great. . gone; _read_ gonne. . ware. . shypcrafte. . catche. . a-ferde. . lache. . many; _read_ meynee. knewe. . sayle. shyppe. . wynde. . olde. . kepte. storme. . made. , . nowe. . shyppe. , . great. . wethers; _read_ weders. . _i supply_ of. . as; _read_ at. . catche. . thorowe. . came. . a-lyght. . great. disease. . shyppe. . lad. ware. . great. amonge. . to-forne came. . helde. . peace. great. . one. . nowe. . myne. . nowe. . nowe. . none. . disease. . sayne. . reasonably. . ferre. . disease. . folke. . mouthe. . arne. . howe. . caytife. . nowe. helpe. . protection. . helpe. howe. . socoure. . maye. . se. . comforte. . gladed. . none. hente. . lefte. . sel. . harde. . deytie. . weare. . ther-thorowe. se. . daye. destenye. . maye. none. . se. . stretche. . arne. . miseasy. . ynoughe. . ease. maye. . teares. . myne. nowe. . harse (_sic_); _for_ harme? . drinke. . sweate. . lyches (for leches). . puruey. chapter iv. and with these wordes i brast out to wepe, that every teere of myne eyen, for greetnesse semed they boren out the bal of my sight, and that al the water had ben out-ronne. than thought me that love gan a litel to hevye for miscomfort of my chere; and gan soberly and in esy maner speke, wel avysinge what she sayd. comenly the wyse speken esily and softe for many skilles. oon is, their wordes are the better bileved; and also, in esy spekinge, avysement men may cacche, what to putte forth and what to holden in. and also, the auctoritè of esy wordes is the more; and eke, they yeven the more understandinge to other intencion of the mater. right so this lady esely and in a softe maner gan say these wordes. ¶ 'mervayle,' quod she, 'greet it is, that by no maner of semblaunt, as fer as i can espye, thou list not to have any recour; but ever thou playnest and sorowest, and wayes of remedye, for folisshe wilfulnesse, thee list not to seche. but enquyre of thy next frendes, that is, thyne inwit and me that have ben thy maystresse, and the recour and fyne of thy disese; [f]or of disese is gladnesse and joy, with a ful +vessel so helded, that it quencheth the felinge of the firste tenes. but thou that were wont not only these thinges remembre in thyne herte, but also fooles therof to enfourmen, in adnullinge of their errours and distroying of their derke opinions, and in comfort of their sere thoughtes; now canst thou not ben comfort of thyn owne soule, in thinking of these thinges. o where hast thou be so longe commensal, that hast so mikel eeten of the potages of foryetfulnesse, and dronken so of ignorance, that the olde souking[es] whiche thou haddest of me arn amaystred and lorn fro al maner of knowing? o, this is a worthy person to helpe other, that can not counsayle him-selfe!' and with these wordes, for pure and stronge shame, i wox al reed. and she than, seing me so astonyed by dyvers stoundes, sodainly (which thing kynde hateth) gan deliciously me comforte with sugred wordes, putting me in ful hope that i shulde the margarite getten, if i folowed her hestes; and gan with a fayre clothe to wypen the teres that hingen on my chekes; and than sayd i in this wyse. 'now, wel of wysdom and of al welthe, withouten thee may nothing ben lerned; thou berest the keyes of al privy thinges. in vayne travayle men to cacche any stedship, but-if ye, lady, first the locke unshet. ye, lady, lerne us the wayes and the by-pathes to heven. ye, lady, maken al the hevenly bodyes goodly and benignely to don her cours, that governen us beestes here on erthe. ye armen your servauntes ayenst al debates with imperciable harneys; ye setten in her hertes insuperable blood of hardinesse; ye leden hem to the parfit good. yet al thing desyreth ye werne no man of helpe, that +wol don your lore. graunt me now a litel of your grace, al my sorowes to cese.' 'myne owne servaunt,' quod she, 'trewly thou sittest nye myne herte; and thy badde chere gan sorily me greve. but amonge thy playning wordes, me thought, thou allegest thinges to be letting of thyne helpinge and thy grace to hinder; wherthrough, me thinketh, that wanhope is crope thorough thyn hert. god forbid that nyse unthrifty thought shulde come in thy mynde, thy wittes to trouble; sithen every thing in coming is contingent. wherfore make no more thy proposicion by an impossible. but now, i praye thee reherse me ayen tho thinges that thy mistrust causen; and thilke thinges i thinke by reson to distroyen, and putte ful hope in thyn herte. what understondest thou there,' quod she, 'by that thou saydest, "many let-games are thyn overlokers?" and also by "that thy moeble is insuffysaunt"? i not what thou therof menest.' 'trewly,' quod i, 'by the first i say, that janglers evermore arn spekinge rather of yvel than of good; for every age of man rather enclyneth to wickednesse, than any goodnesse to avaunce. also false wordes springen so wyde, by the stering of false lying tonges, that fame als swiftely flyeth to her eres and sayth many wicked tales; and as soone shal falsenesse ben leved as tr[o]uthe, for al his gret sothnesse. 'now by that other,' quod i, 'me thinketh thilke jewel so precious, that to no suche wrecche as i am wolde vertue therof extende; and also i am to feble in worldly joyes, any suche jewel to countrevayle. for suche people that worldly joyes han at her wil ben sette at the highest degree, and most in reverence ben accepted. for false wening maketh felicitè therin to be supposed; but suche caytives as i am evermore ben hindred.' 'certes,' quod she, 'take good hede, and i shal by reson to thee shewen, that al these thinges mowe nat lette thy purpos by the leest point that any wight coude pricke. ch. iv. . great-. . heauy. . easy. . easyly. . one. . easy speakynge. catche. put forthe. . easy. . ladye easely. . great. . ferre. . the lyste. . inwytte. . disease (_twice_). . nessel; _misprint for_ uessel. . wonte. onely. . distroyeng. . comforte. seare. . comforte. . haste. . soukyng. . arne. . woxe. . thynge. . teares. . nowe. wysedom. the. . bearest. . catche. . done her course. . blode. . leaden. parfyte. thynge. . wern. wele; _read_ wol. done. . nowe. . cease. . wherthroughe. . nowe. the. . reason. . put. . lette-games. . meanest. . arne. . steeryng. lyeng. . eares. . wretche. . reason. . the. let. purpose. chapter v. remembrest nat,' quod she, 'ensample is oon of the strongest maner[es], as for to preve a mannes purpos? than if i now, by ensample, enduce thee to any proposicion, is it nat preved by strength?' 'yes, forsothe,' quod i. 'wel,' quod she, 'raddest thou never how paris of troye and heleyne loved togider, and yet had they not entrecomuned of speche? also acrisius shette dane his doughter in a tour, for suertee that no wight shulde of her have no maistry in my service; and yet jupiter by signes, without any speche, had al his purpose ayenst her fathers wil. and many suche mo have ben knitte in trouthe, and yet spake they never togider; for that is a thing enclosed under secretnesse of privytè, why twey persons entremellen hertes after a sight. the power in knowing, of such thinges +to preven, shal nat al utterly be yeven to you beestes; for many thinges, in suche precious maters, ben reserved to jugement of devyne purveyaunce; for among lyving people, by mannes consideracion, moun they nat be determined. wherfore i saye, al the envy, al the janglinge, that wel ny [al] people upon my servauntes maken +ofte, is rather cause of esployte than of any hindringe.' 'why, than,' quod i, 'suffre ye such wrong; and moun, whan ye list, lightly al such yvels abate? me semeth, to you it is a greet unworship.' 'o,' quod she, 'hold now thy pees. i have founden to many that han ben to me unkynde, that trewly i wol suffre every wight in that wyse to have disese; and who that continueth to the ende wel and trewly, hem wol i helpen, and as for oon of myne in-to blisse [don] to wende. as [in] marcial doing in grece, who was y-crowned? by god, nat the strongest; but he that rathest com and lengest abood and continued in the journey, and spared nat to traveyle as long as the play leste. but thilke person, that profred him now to my service, [and] therin is a while, and anon voideth and [is] redy to another; and so now oon he thinketh and now another; and in-to water entreth and anon respireth: such oon list me nat in-to perfit blisse of my service bringe. a tree ofte set in dyvers places wol nat by kynde endure to bringe forth frutes. loke now, i pray thee, how myne olde servauntes of tyme passed continued in her service, and folowe thou after their steppes; and than might thou not fayle, in case thou worche in this wyse.' 'certes,' quod i, 'it is nothing lich, this world, to tyme passed; eke this countrè hath oon maner, and another countrè hath another. and so may nat a man alway putte to his eye the salve that he heled with his hele. for this is sothe: betwixe two thinges liche, ofte dyversitè is required.' 'now,' quod she, 'that is sothe; dyversitè of nation, dyversitè of lawe, as was maked by many resons; for that dyversitè cometh in by the contrarious malice of wicked people, that han envyous hertes ayenst other. but trewly, my lawe to my servauntes ever hath ben in general, whiche may nat fayle. for right as mannes +lawe that is ordained by many determinacions, may nat be knowe for good or badde, til assay of the people han proved it and [founden] to what ende it draweth; and than it sheweth the necessitè therof, or els the impossibilitè: right so the lawe of my servauntes so wel hath ben proved in general, that hitherto hath it not fayled. wiste thou not wel that al the lawe of kynde is my lawe, and by god ordayned and stablisshed to dure by kynde resoun? wherfore al lawe by mannes witte purveyed ought to be underput to lawe of kynde, whiche yet hath be commune to every kyndely creature; that my statutes and my lawe that ben kyndely arn general to al peoples. olde doinges and by many turninges of yeres used, and with the peoples maner proved, mowen nat so lightly ben defased; but newe doinges, contrariauntes suche olde, ofte causen diseses and breken many purposes. yet saye i nat therfore that ayen newe mischeef men shulde nat ordaynen a newe remedye; but alwaye looke it contrary not the olde no ferther than the malice streccheth. than foloweth it, the olde doinges in love han ben universal, as for most exployte[s] forth used; wherfore i wol not yet that of my lawes nothing be adnulled. but thanne to thy purpos: suche jangelers and lokers, and wayters of games, if thee thinke in aught they mowe dere, yet love wel alwaye, and sette hem at naught; and let thy port ben lowe in every wightes presence, and redy in thyne herte to maynteyne that thou hast begonne; and a litel thee fayne with mekenesse in wordes; and thus with sleyght shalt thou surmount and dequace the yvel in their hertes. and wysdom yet is to seme flye otherwhyle, there a man wol fighte. thus with suche thinges the tonges of yvel shal ben stilled; els fully to graunte thy ful meninge, for-sothe ever was and ever it shal be, that myn enemyes ben aferde to truste to any fightinge. and therfore have thou no cowardes herte in my service, no more than somtyme thou haddest in the contrarye. for if thou drede suche jangleres, thy viage to make, understand wel, that he that dredeth any rayn, to sowe his cornes, he shal have than [bare] bernes. also he that is aferd of his clothes, let him daunce naked! who nothing undertaketh, and namely in my service, nothing acheveth. after grete stormes the +weder is often mery and smothe. after moche clatering, there is mokil rowning. thus, after jangling wordes, cometh "huissht! pees! and be stille!"' 'o good lady!' quod i than, 'see now how, seven yere passed and more, have i graffed and +grobbed a vyne; and with al the wayes that i coude i sought to a fed me of the grape; but frute have i non founde. also i have this seven yere served laban, to a wedded rachel his doughter; but blere-eyed lya is brought to my bedde, which alway engendreth my tene, and is ful of children in tribulacion and in care. and although the clippinges and kissinges of rachel shulde seme to me swete, yet is she so barayne that gladnesse ne joye by no way wol springe; so that i may wepe with rachel. i may not ben counsayled with solace, sithen issue of myn hertely desyre is fayled. now than i pray that to me [come] sone fredom and grace in this eight[eth] yere; this eighteth mowe to me bothe be kinrest and masseday, after the seven werkedays of travayle, to folowe the christen lawe; and, what ever ye do els, that thilke margaryte be holden so, lady, in your privy chambre, that she in this case to none other person be committed.' 'loke than,' quod she, 'thou persever in my service, in whiche i have thee grounded; that thilke scorn in thyn enemyes mowe this on thy person be not sothed: "lo! this man began to edefye, but, for his foundement is bad, to the ende may he it not bringe." for mekenesse in countenaunce, with a manly hert in dedes and in longe continuaunce, is the conisance of my livery to al my retinue delivered. what wenest thou, that me list avaunce suche persons as loven the first sittinges at feestes, the highest stoles in churches and in hal, loutinges of peoples in markettes and fayres; unstedfaste to byde in one place any whyle togider; wening his owne wit more excellent than other; scorning al maner devyse but his own? nay, nay, god wot, these shul nothing parten of my blisse. truly, my maner here-toforn hath ben [to] worship[pe] with my blisse lyons in the felde and lambes in chambre; egles at assaute and maydens in halle; foxes in counsayle, stil[le] in their dedes; and their proteccioun is graunted, redy to ben a bridge; and their baner is arered, like wolves in the felde. thus, by these wayes, shul men ben avaunced; ensample of david, that from keping of shepe was drawen up in-to the order of kingly governaunce; and jupiter, from a bole, to ben europes fere; and julius cesar, from the lowest degrè in rome, to be mayster of al erthly princes; and eneas from hel, to be king of the countrè there rome is now stonding. and so to thee i say; thy grace, by bering ther-after, may sette thee in suche plight, that no jangling may greve the leest tucke of thy hemmes; that [suche] are their +jangles, is nought to counte at a cresse in thy disavauntage. ch. v. . one. . maner; _read_ maneres. purpose. . nowe. the. . proued. . howe. . suertie. . so; _read_ to. . lyueng. . _i supply_ al. . efte; _read_ ofte. . great. . holde nowe thy peace. . disease. . one. _i supply_ don. _i supply_ in. . come. abode. . lest. . nowe. _i supply_ and. . _i supply_ is. nowe one. . nowe. . one. p_er_fyte. . nowe. the howe. . worlde. . one. . alwaye put. . healed. . nowe. . reasons. . lawes; _read_ lawe. . determinati[=o]s. . _i supply_ founden. . reasoun. . purueyde. vnderputte. . arne. . diseases. breaken. . mischefe. . stretcheth. . exployte forthe. . nothynge. . purpose. . the. . lette. porte. . the. . wysdome. . fyght. . graunt. . meanynge. . vnderstande. rayne. . _i supply_ bare. . aferde. . great. wether; _read_ weder. . huysshte. peace. styl. . se nowe howe. . groubed. . none. . nowe. . _i supply_ come. . kynrest (_sic_). . skorne. . this; _read_ thus? . toforne. . worship; _read_ worshippe (_verb_). . styl. . protection. . nowe. the. . set the. . lest. . ianghes; _read_ jangles. chapter vi. ever,' quod she, 'hath the people in this worlde desyred to have had greet name in worthinesse, and hated foule to bere any [en]fame; and that is oon of the objeccions thou alegest to be ayen thyne hertely desyre.' 'ye, forsothe,' quod i; 'and that, so comenly, the people wol lye, and bringe aboute suche enfame.' 'now,' quod she, 'if men with lesinges putte on thee enfame, wenest thy-selfe therby ben enpeyred? that wening is wrong; see why; for as moche as they lyen, thy meryte encreseth, and make[th] thee ben more worthy, to hem that knowen of the soth; by what thing thou art apeyred, that in so mokil thou art encresed of thy beloved frendes. and sothly, a wounde of thy frende [is] to thee lasse harm, ye, sir, and better than a fals kissing in disceyvable glosing of thyne enemy; above that than, to be wel with thy frende maketh [voyd] suche enfame. _ergo_, thou art encresed and not apeyred.' 'lady,' quod i, 'somtyme yet, if a man be in disese, th'estimacion of the envyous people ne loketh nothing to desertes of men, ne to the merytes of their doinges, but only to the aventure of fortune; and therafter they yeven their sentence. and some loken the voluntary wil in his herte, and therafter telleth his jugement; not taking hede to reson ne to the qualitè of the doing; as thus. if a man be riche and fulfild with worldly welfulnesse, some commenden it, and sayn it is so lent by juste cause; and he that hath adversitè, they sayn he is weked; and hath deserved thilke anoy. the contrarye of these thinges some men holden also; and sayn that to the riche prosperitè is purvayed in-to his confusion; and upon this mater many autoritès of many and greet-witted clerkes they alegen. and some men sayn, though al good estimacion forsake folk that han adversitè, yet is it meryte and encrees of his blisse; so that these purposes am so wonderful in understanding, that trewly, for myn adversitè now, i not how the sentence of the indifferent people wil jugen my fame.' 'therfore,' quod she, 'if any wight shulde yeve a trewe sentence on suche maters, the cause of the disese maist thou see wel. understand ther-upon after what ende it draweth, that is to sayne, good or badde; so ought it to have his fame +by goodnesse or enfame by badnesse. for [of] every resonable person, and namely of a wyse man, his wit ought not, without reson to-forn herd, sodainly in a mater to juge. after the sawes of the wyse, "thou shalt not juge ne deme toforn thou knowe."' 'lady,' quod i, 'ye remembre wel, that in moste laude and praysing of certayne seyntes in holy churche, is to rehersen their conuersion from badde in-to good; and that is so rehersed, as by a perpetual mirrour of remembraunce, in worshippinge of tho sayntes, and good ensample to other misdoers in amendement. how turned the romayne zedeoreys fro the romaynes, to be with hanibal ayenst his kynde nacion; and afterwardes, him seming the romayns to be at the next degrè of confusion, turned to his olde alyes; by whose witte after was hanibal discomfited. wherfore, to enfourme you, lady, the maner-why i mene, see now. in my youth i was drawe to ben assentaunt and (in my mightes) helping to certain conjuracions and other grete maters of ruling of citizins; and thilke thinges ben my drawers in; and ex[c]itours to tho maters wern so paynted and coloured that (at the prime face) me semed them noble and glorious to al the people. i than, wening mikel meryte have deserved in furthering and mayntenaunce of tho thinges, besyed and laboured, with al my diligence, in werkinge of thilke maters to the ende. and trewly, lady, to telle you the sothe, me rought litel of any hate of the mighty senatours in thilke citè, ne of comunes malice; for two skilles. oon was, i had comfort to ben in suche plyte, that bothe profit were to me and to my frendes. another was, for commen profit in cominaltee is not but pees and tranquilitè, with just governaunce, proceden from thilke profit; sithen, by counsayle of myne inwitte, me thought the firste painted thinges malice and yvel meninge, withouten any good avayling to any people, and of tyrannye purposed. and so, for pure sorowe, and of my medlinge and badde infame that i was in ronne, tho [the] teres [that] lasshed out of myne eyen were thus awaye wasshe, than the under-hidde malice and the rancour of purposing envye, forncast and imagined in distruccion of mokil people, shewed so openly, that, had i ben blind, with myne hondes al the circumstaunce i might wel have feled. now than tho persones that suche thinges have cast to redresse, for wrathe of my first medlinge, shopen me to dwelle in this pynande prison, til lachases my threed no lenger wolde twyne. and ever i was sought, if me liste to have grace of my lyfe and frenesse of that prison, i shulde openly confesse how pees might ben enduced to enden al the firste rancours. it was fully supposed my knowing to be ful in tho maters. than, lady, i thought that every man that, by any waye of right, rightfully don, may helpe any comune +wele to ben saved; whiche thing to kepe above al thinges i am holde to mayntayne, and namely in distroying of a wrong; al shulde i therthrough enpeche myn owne fere, if he were gilty and to do misdeed assentaunt. and mayster ne frend may nought avayle to the soule of him that in falsnesse deyeth; and also that i nere desyred wrathe of the people ne indignacion of the worthy, for nothinge that ever i wrought or did, in any doing my-selfe els, but in the mayntenaunce of these foresayd errours and in hydinge of the privitees therof. and that al the peoples hertes, holdinge on the errours syde, weren blinde and of elde so ferforth begyled, that debat and stryf they maynteyned, and in distruccion on that other syde; by whiche cause the pees, that moste in comunaltee shulde be desyred, was in poynte to be broken and adnulled. also the citee of london, that is to me so dere and swete, in whiche i was forth growen; (and more kyndely love have i to that place than to any other in erthe, as every kyndely creature hath ful appetyte to that place of his kyndly engendrure, and to wilne reste and pees in that stede to abyde); thilke pees shulde thus there have ben broken, and of al wyse it is commended and desyred. for knowe thing it is, al men that desyren to comen to the perfit pees everlasting must the pees by god commended bothe mayntayne and kepe. this pees by angels voyce was confirmed, our god entringe in this worlde. this, as for his testament, he lefte to al his frendes, whanne he retourned to the place from whence he cam; this his apostel amonesteth to holden, without whiche man perfitly may have non insight. also this god, by his coming, made not pees alone betwene hevenly and erthly bodyes, but also amonge us on erthe so he pees confirmed, that in one heed of love oon body we shulde perfourme. also i remembre me wel how the name of athenes was rather after the god of pees than of batayle, shewinge that pees moste is necessarie to comunaltees and citees. i than, so styred by al these wayes toforn nempned, declared certayne poyntes in this wyse. firste, that thilke persones that hadden me drawen to their purposes, and me not weting the privy entent of their meninge, drawen also the feeble-witted people, that have non insight of gubernatif prudence, to clamure and to crye on maters that they styred; and under poyntes for comune avauntage they enbolded the passif to take in the actives doinge; and also styred innocentes of conning to crye after thinges, whiche (quod they) may not stande but we ben executours of tho maters, and auctoritè of execucion by comen eleccion to us be delivered. and that muste entre by strength of your mayntenaunce. for we out of suche degree put, oppression of these olde hindrers shal agayn surmounten, and putten you in such subjeccion, that in endelesse wo ye shul complayne. the governementes (quod they) of your citè, lefte in the handes of torcencious citezins, shal bringe in pestilence and distruccion to you, good men; and therfore let us have the comune administracion to abate suche yvels. also (quod they) it is worthy the good to commende, and the gilty desertes to chastice. there ben citezens many, for-ferde of execucion that shal be doon; for extorcions by hem committed ben evermore ayenst these purposes and al other good mevinges. never-the-latter, lady, trewly the meninge under these wordes was, fully to have apeched the mighty senatoures, whiche hadden hevy herte for the misgovernaunce that they seen. and so, lady, whan it fel that free eleccion [was mad], by greet clamour of moche people, [that] for greet disese of misgovernaunce so fervently stoden in her eleccion that they hem submitted to every maner +fate rather than have suffred the maner and the rule of the hated governours; notwithstandinge that in the contrary helden moche comune meyny, that have no consideracion but only to voluntary lustes withouten reson. but than thilke governour so forsaken, fayninge to-forn his undoinge for misrule in his tyme, shoop to have letted thilke eleccion, and have made a newe, him-selfe to have ben chosen; and under that, mokil rore [to] have arered. these thinges, lady, knowen among the princes, and made open to the people, draweth in amendement, that every degree shal ben ordayned to stande there-as he shulde; and that of errours coming herafter men may lightly to-forn-hand purvaye remedye; in this wyse pees and rest to be furthered and holde. of the whiche thinges, lady, thilke persones broughten in answere to-forn their moste soverayne juge, not coarted by payninge dures, openly knowlegeden, and asked therof grace; so that apertly it preveth my wordes ben sothe, without forginge of lesinges. but now it greveth me to remembre these dyvers sentences, in janglinge of these shepy people; certes, me thinketh, they oughten to maken joye that a sothe may be knowe. for my trouthe and my conscience ben witnesse to me bothe, that this (knowinge sothe) have i sayd, for no harme ne malice of tho persones, but only for trouthe of my sacrament in my ligeaunce, by whiche i was charged on my kinges behalfe. but see ye not now, lady, how the felonous thoughtes of this people and covins of wicked men conspyren ayen my sothfast trouth! see ye not every wight that to these erroneous opinions were assentaunt, and helpes to the noyse, and knewen al these thinges better than i my-selven, apparaylen to fynden newe frendes, and clepen me fals, and studyen how they mowen in her mouthes werse plyte nempne? o god, what may this be, that thilke folk whiche that in tyme of my mayntenaunce, and whan my might avayled to strecche to the forsayd maters, tho me commended, and yave me name of trouth, in so manyfolde maners that it was nyghe in every wightes eere, there-as any of thilke people weren; and on the other syde, thilke company somtyme passed, yevinge me name of badde loos: now bothe tho peoples turned the good in-to badde, and badde in-to good? whiche thing is wonder, that they knowing me saying but sothe, arn now tempted to reply her olde praysinges; and knowen me wel in al doinges to ben trewe, and sayn openly that i false have sayd many thinges! and they aleged nothing me to ben false or untrewe, save thilke mater knowleged by the parties hem-selfe; and god wot, other mater is non. ye also, lady, knowe these thinges for trewe; i avaunte not in praysing of my-selfe; therby shulde i lese the precious secrè of my conscience. but ye see wel that false opinion of the people for my trouthe, in telling out of false conspyred maters; and after the jugement of these clerkes, i shulde not hyde the sothe of no maner person, mayster ne other. wherfore i wolde not drede, were it put in the consideracion of trewe and of wyse. and for comers hereafter shullen fully, out of denwere, al the sothe knowe of these thinges in acte, but as they wern, i have put it in scripture, in perpetuel remembraunce of true meninge. for trewly, lady, me semeth that i ought to bere the name of trouthe, that for the love of rightwysnesse have thus me +submitted. but now than the false fame, which that (clerkes sayn) flyeth as faste as doth the fame of trouthe, shal so wyde sprede til it be brought to the jewel that i of mene; and so shal i ben hindred, withouten any mesure of trouthe.' ch. vi. . great. beare. . _read_ enfame; _see l. _. one. obiections. . nowe. leasynges put on the. . wronge. . se. encreaseth. . the. . arte encreased. . _i supply_ is. . the. harme. false. . _i supply_ voyd. arte. . disease. . reason. . fulfylde. . sayne. lente. . sayne. weaked; _read_ wikked? . anoye. . sayne. . great. . forsaken; _read_ forsake. . encrease. . arne. . nowe. howe. . disease. se. . vnderstande. . fame or by goodnesse enfame; _read_ fame by goodnesse or enfame. . _supply_ of. reasonable. . wytte. reason to-forne. . herde. . toforne. . conuercion. . howe. zedeoreys _or_ [gh]edeoreys. . meane se nowe. . great. . exitours. werne. . tel. . one. comforte. . profyte. . profyte. comynaltie. peace. . profyte. . meanynge. . _i supply_ the _and_ that. . rancoure. . fornecaste. distruction. . blynde. . nowe. caste. . dwel. . threde. . howe peace. . endused. . done. maye. helpe (_repeated after_ comen); _read_ wele. thynge. . distroyeng. . misdede. . frende maye. . -forthe. debate. . stryfe. distruction. . peace. comunaltie. . cytie. . forthe. - . peace (_five times_). . thynge. perfyte. . left. . came. . perfytely. . none. - . peace (_twice_). . one (_twice_). . howe. - . peace (_twice_). . comunalties and cytes. . toforne. . meanynge. feoble. . none. gubernatyfe. . passyfe. . election. . agayne. . subiection. . distruction. . doone. . meanynge. . heauy. . election. _supply_ was mad. great (_twice_). _supply_ that. . disease. election. . face; _read_ fate. . onely. . reason. to-forne. . shope. . electyon. . amonge. . to forne hande. peace. . to forne. . apertely. . leasynges. . nowe. . maye. . sayde. . onely. leigeaunce. . se. nowe. . se. . cleapen. false. . howe. . maye. folke. . stretch. . nowe. . knowyuge (_sic_). sayng. arne nowe. . sayne. . nothynge. . wote. . none. . se. . werne. . meanynge. . beare. . submytten (!). . nowe. sayne. . dothe. . meane. . measure. chapter vii. than gan love sadly me beholde, and sayd in a changed voyce, lower than she had spoken in any tyme: 'fayn wolde i,' quod she, 'that thou were holpen; but hast thou sayd any-thing whiche thou might not proven?' 'pardè,' quod i, 'the persones, every thing as i have sayd, han knowleged hem-selfe.' 'ye,' quod she, 'but what if they hadden nayed? how woldest thou have maynteyned it?' 'sothely,' quod i, 'it is wel wist, bothe amonges the greetest and other of the realme, that i profered my body so largely in-to provinge of tho thinges, that mars shulde have juged the ende; but, for sothnesse of my wordes, they durste not to thilke juge truste.' 'now, certes,' quod she, 'above al fames in this worlde, the name of marcial doinges most plesen to ladyes of my lore; but sithen thou were redy, and thyne adversaryes in thy presence refused thilke doing; thy fame ought to be so born as if in dede it had take to the ende. and therfore every wight that any droppe of reson hath, and hereth of thee infame for these thinges, hath this answere to saye: "trewly thou saydest; for thyne adversaryes thy wordes affirmed." and if thou haddest lyed, yet are they discomfited, the prise leved on thy syde; so that fame shal holde down infame; he shal bringe [it in] upon none halfe. what greveth thee thyne enemye[s] to sayn their owne shame, as thus: "we arn discomfited, and yet our quarel is trewe?" shal not the loos of thy frendes ayenward dequace thilke enfame, and saye they graunted a sothe without a stroke or fighting? many men in batayle ben discomfited and overcome in a rightful quarel, that is goddes privy jugement in heven; but yet, although the party be yolden, he may with wordes saye his quarel is trewe, and to yelde him, in the contrarye, for drede of dethe he is compelled; and he that graunteth and no stroke hath feled, he may not crepe away in this wyse by none excusacion. indifferent folk wil say: "ye, who is trewe, who is fals, him-selfe knowlegeth tho thinges." thus in every syde fame sheweth to thee good and no badde.' 'but yet,' quod i, 'some wil say, i ne shulde, for no dethe, have discovered my maistresse; and so by unkyndnesse they wol knette infame, to pursue me aboute. thus enemyes of wil, in manyfolde maner, wol seche privy serpentynes queintyses, to quenche and distroye, by venim of many besinesses, the light of tr[o]uthe; to make hertes to murmure ayenst my persone, to have me in hayne withouten any cause.' 'now,' quod she, 'here me a fewe wordes, and thou shalt fully ben answered, i trowe. me thinketh (quod she) right now, by thy wordes, that sacrament of swering, that is to say, charging by othe, was oon of the causes to make thee discover the malicious imaginacions tofore nempned. every ooth, by knittinge of copulation, muste have these lawes, that is, trewe jugement and rightwysenesse; in whiche thinge if any of these lacke, the ooth is y-tourned in-to the name of perjury. than to make a trewe serment, most nedes these thinges folowe. for ofte tymes, a man to saye sothe, but jugement and justice folowe, he is forsworn; ensample of herodes, for holdinge of his serment was [he] dampned. also, to saye tr[o]uthe rightfulliche (but in jugement) otherwhile is forboden, by that al sothes be nat to sayne. therfore in jugement, in tr[o]uthe, and rightwisenesse, is every creature bounden, up payne of perjury, ful knowing to make, tho[ugh] it were of his owne persone, for drede of sinne; after that worde, "better is it to dey than live false." and, al wolde perverted people fals report make in unkyndnesse, in that entent thy [en]fame to reyse, whan light of tr[o]uthe in these maters is forth sprongen and openly publisshed among commens, than shal nat suche derke enfame dare appere, for pure shame of his falsnesse. as some men ther ben that their owne enfame can none otherwyse voide or els excuse, but +by hindringe of other mennes fame; which that by non other cause clepen other men false, but for [that] with their owne falsnesse mowen they nat ben avaunsed; or els by false sklaund[r]inge wordes other men shenden, their owne trewe sklaunder to make seme the lasse. for if such men wolden their eyen of their conscience revolven, [they] shulden seen the same sentence they legen on other springe out of their sydes, with so many braunches, it were impossible to nombre. to whiche therefore may it be sayd in that thinge, "this man thou demest, therein thy-selfe thou condempnest." but (quod she) understand nat by these wordes, that thou wene me saye thee to be worthy sclaunder, for any mater tofore written; truely i wolde witnesse the contrary; but i saye that the bemes of sclaundring wordes may not be don awaye til the daye of dome. for how shulde it nat yet, amonges so greet plentee of people, ben many shrewes, sithen whan no mo but eight persons in noes shippe were closed, yet oon was a shrewe and skorned his father? these thinges (quod she) i trowe, shewen that fals fame is nat to drede, ne of wyse persons to accepte, and namely nat of thy margarite, whose wysdom here-after i thinke to declare; wherfore i wot wel suche thing shal nat her asterte; than of unkyndnesse thyn ooth hath thee excused at the fulle. but now, if thou woldest nat greve, me list a fewe thinges to shewe.' 'say on,' quod i, 'what ye wol; i trowe ye mene but trouthe and my profit in tyme cominge.' 'trewly,' quod she, 'that is sothe, so thou con wel kepe these wordes, and in the in[ne]rest secrè chambre of thyne herte so faste hem close that they never flitte; than shalt thou fynde hem avayling. loke now what people hast thou served; whiche of hem al in tyme of thyne exile ever thee refresshed, by the valewe of the leste coyned plate that walketh in money? who was sory, or made any rewth for thy disese? if they hadden getten their purpose, of thy misaventure sette they nat an hawe. lo, whan thou were emprisonned, how faste they hyed in helpe of thy deliveraunce! i wene of thy dethe they yeve but lyte. they loked after no-thing but after their owne lustes. and if thou liste say the sothe, al that meyny that in this +brige thee broughten, lokeden rather after thyne helpes than thee to have releved. owen nat yet some of hem money for his commens? paydest nat thou for some of her dispences, til they were tourned out of selande? who yave thee ever ought for any rydinge thou madest? yet, pardè, some of hem token money for thy chambre, and putte tho pens in his purse, unwetinge of the renter. lo for which a company thou medlest, that neither thee ne them-selfe mighten helpe of unkyndnesse; now they bere the name that thou supposest of hem for to have. what might thou more have don than thou diddest, but-if thou woldest in a fals quarel have been a stinkinge martyr? i wene thou fleddest, as longe as thou might, their privitè to counsayle; which thing thou hele[de]st lenger than thou shuldest. and thilke that ought thee money no penny wolde paye; they wende thy returne hadde ben an impossible. how might thou better have hem proved, but thus in thy nedy diseses? now hast thou ensaumple for whom thou shalt meddle; trewly, this lore is worth many goodes.' ch. vii. . fayne. . haste. . -thynge. . yea. howe. . wyste. amongest. greatest. . nowe. . moste pleasen. . borne. . reason. the. . leaued. . _supply_ it in. . the. enemye (_sic_). sayne. . arne. . partie. . maye. . folke. false. . the. . nowe. shalte. . answerde. nowe. . swearyng. . one. the. . othe. copulation. . othe. . forsworne. . _supply_ he. . false. . reporte. . forthe. . be; _for_ by. . cleapen. _supply_ that. . sklaundynge. shendyn. . _i supply_ they. sene. . legen [_for_ aleggen]. . maye. . vndersta_n_de. . the. . beames. done. . howe. great. . plentie. . one. . false. . wysedom. . wotte. thynge. . thyne othe. the. . nowe. . meane. . profyte. . inrest. . shalte. . nowe. haste. . the. . sorye. . disease. . howe. . -thynge. . brigge; _read_ brige. , . the. . the. . pardye. . the. . now. beare. . done. false. . helest; _read_ heledest. the. . howe. . diseases. nowe haste. . shalte. worthe. chapter viii. +eft gan love to +steren me [with] these wordes: 'thinke on my speche; for trewly here-after it wol do thee lykinge; and how-so-ever thou see fortune shape her wheele to tourne, this meditacion [shal] by no waye revolve. for certes, fortune sheweth her fayrest, whan she thinketh to begyle. and as me thought, here-toforn thou saydest, thy loos in love, for thy rightwysenesse ought to be raysed, shulde be a-lowed in tyme cominge. thou might in love so thee have, that loos and fame shul so ben raysed, that to thy frendes comfort, and sorowe to thyne enemys, endlesse shul endure. but if thou were the oon sheep, amonges the hundred, were lost in deserte and out of the way hadde erred, and now to the flocke art restoored, the shepherd hath in thee no joye and thou ayen to the forrest tourne. but that right as the sorowe and anguisshe was greet in tyme of thyne out-waye goinge, right so joye and gladnesse shal be doubled to sene thee converted; and nat as lothes wyf ayen-lokinge, but [in] hool counsayle with the shepe folowinge, and with them grasse and herbes gadre. never-the-later (quod she) i saye nat these thinges for no wantrust that i have in supposinge of thee otherwyse than i shulde. for trewly, i wot wel that now thou art set in suche a purpose, out of whiche thee liste nat to parte. but i saye it for many men there been, that to knowinge of other mennes doinges setten al their cure, and lightly desyren the badde to clatter rather than the good, and have no wil their owne maner to amende. they also hate of olde rancours lightly haven; and there that suche thing abydeth, sodaynly in their mouthes procedeth the habundaunce of the herte, and wordes as stones out-throwe. wherfore my counsayl is ever-more openly and apertly, in what place thou sitte, counterplete th'errours and meninges in as fer as thou hem wistest false, and leve for no wight to make hem be knowe in every bodyes ere; and be alway pacient and use jacobes wordes, what-so-ever men of thee clappen: "i shal sustayne my ladyes wrathe which i have deserved, so longe as my margarite hath rightwysed my cause." and certes (quod she) i witnesse my-selfe, if thou, thus converted, sorowest in good meninge in thyne herte, [and] wolt from al vanitè parfitly departe, in consolacioun of al good plesaunce of that margaryte, whiche that thou desyrest after wil of thyn herte, in a maner of a +moders pitè, [she] shul fully accepte thee in-to grace. for right as thou rentest clothes in open sighte, so openly to sowe hem at his worshippe withouten reprofe [is] commended. also, right as thou were ensample of moche-folde errour, right so thou must be ensample of manyfolde correccioun; so good savour to forgoing +of errour causeth diligent love, with many playted praisinges to folowe; and than shal al the firste errours make the folowinge worshippes to seme hugely encresed. blacke and white, set togider, every for other more semeth; and so doth every thinges contrary in kynde. but infame, that goth alwaye tofore, and praysinge worship by any cause folowinge after, maketh to ryse the ilke honour in double of welth; and that quencheth the spotte of the first enfame. why wenest, i saye, these thinges in hindringe of thy name? nay, nay, god wot, but for pure encresing worship, thy rightwysenesse to commende, and thy trouthe to seme the more. wost nat wel thy-selfe, that thou in fourme of making +passest nat adam that eet of the apple? thou +passest nat the stedfastnesse of noe, that eetinge of the grape becom dronke. thou passest nat the chastitè of lothe, that lay by his doughter; eke the nobley of abraham, whom god reproved by his pryde; also davides mekenesse, whiche for a woman made urye be slawe. what? also hector of troye, in whom no defaute might be founde, yet is he reproved that he ne hadde with manhode nat suffred the warre begonne, ne paris to have went in-to grece, by whom gan al the sorowe. for trewly, him lacketh no venim of privè consenting, whiche that openly leveth a wrong to withsaye. lo eke an olde proverbe amonges many other: "he that is stille semeth as he graunted." now by these ensamples thou might fully understonde, that these thinges ben writte to your lerning, and in rightwysenesse of tho persones, as thus: to every wight his defaute committed made goodnesse afterwardes don be the more in reverence and in open shewing; for ensample, is it nat songe in holy churche, "lo, how necessary was adams synne!" david the king gat salomon the king of her that was uryes wyf. truly, for reprofe is non of these thinges writte. right so, tho i reherce thy before-dede, i repreve thee never the more; ne for no villany of thee are they rehersed, but for worshippe, so thou continewe wel here-after: and for profit of thy-selfe i rede thou on hem thinke.' than sayde i right thus: 'lady of unitè and accorde, envy and wrathe lurken there thou comest in place; ye weten wel your-selve, and so don many other, that whyle i administred the office of commen doinge, as in rulinge of the stablisshmentes amonges the people, i defouled never my conscience for no maner dede; but ever, by witte and by counsayle of the wysest, the maters weren drawen to their right endes. and thus trewly for you, lady, i have desyred suche cure; and certes, in your service was i nat ydel, as fer as suche doinge of my cure streccheth.' 'that is a thing,' quod she, 'that may drawe many hertes of noble, and voice of commune in-to glory; and fame is nat but wrecched and fickle. alas! that mankynde coveyteth in so leude a wyse to be rewarded of any good dede, sithe glorie of fame, in this worlde, is nat but hindringe of glorie in tyme comminge! and certes (quod she) yet at the hardest suche fame, in-to heven, is nat the erthe but a centre to the cercle of heven? a pricke is wonder litel in respect of al the cercle; and yet, in al this pricke, may no name be born, in maner of peersing, for many obstacles, as waters, and wildernesse, and straunge langages. and nat only names of men ben stilled and holden out of knowleginge by these obstacles, but also citees and realmes of prosperitè ben letted to be knowe, and their reson hindred; so that they mowe nat ben parfitly in mennes propre understandinge. how shulde than the name of a singuler londenoys passe the glorious name of london, whiche by many it is commended, and by many it is lacked, and in many mo places in erthe nat knowen than knowen? for in many countrees litel is london in knowing or in spech; and yet among oon maner of people may nat such fame in goodnes come; for as many as praysen, commenly as many lacken. fy than on such maner fame! slepe, and suffre him that knoweth previtè of hertes to dele suche fame in thilke place there nothing ayenst a sothe shal neither speke ne dare apere, by attourney ne by other maner. how many greet-named, and many greet in worthinesse losed, han be tofore this tyme, that now out of memorie are slidden, and clenely forgeten, for defaute of wrytinges! and yet scriptures for greet elde so ben defased, that no perpetualtè may in hem ben juged. but if thou wolt make comparisoun to ever, what joye mayst thou have in erthly name? it is a fayr lykenesse, a pees or oon grayn of whete, to a thousand shippes ful of corne charged! what nombre is betwene the oon and th'other? and yet mowe bothe they be nombred, and ende in rekening have. but trewly, al that may be nombred is nothing to recken, as to thilke that may nat be nombred. for +of the thinges ended is mad comparison; as, oon litel, another greet; but in thinges to have an ende, and another no ende, suche comparisoun may nat be founden. wherfore in heven to ben losed with god hath non ende, but endlesse endureth; and thou canst nothing don aright, but thou desyre the rumour therof be heled and in every wightes ere; and that dureth but a pricke in respecte of the other. and so thou sekest reward of folkes smale wordes, and of vayne praysinges. trewly, therin thou lesest the guerdon of vertue; and lesest the grettest valour of conscience, and uphap thy renomè everlasting. therfore boldely renomè of fame of the erthe shulde be hated, and fame after deth shulde be desyred of werkes of vertue. [trewly, vertue] asketh guerdoning, and the soule causeth al vertue. than the soule, delivered out of prison of erthe, is most worthy suche guerdon among to have in the everlastinge fame; and nat the body, that causeth al mannes yvels. ch. viii. . ofte; _read_ eft. sterne; _read_ steren. _i supply_ with. . the. . howe. se. . meditation. _i supply_ shal. . toforne. . the. . co_m_forte. . one shepe. . loste. nowe. . arte. shepeherd. the. . great. . the. . wyfe. _i supply_ in. hoole. . the. . wotte. nowe. arte sette. . the. . bene. . thynge. . stones _repeated in_ th. . counsayle. apertely. . therrours. meanynges. ferre. . wystyst. leaue. . eare. . menne. the. . meanynge. . _i supply_ and. wolte. parfytely. . consolatyoun. . pleasaunce. . hert. mothers; _read_ moders. _i supply_ she. . the. . _i supply_ is. . correctioun. al; _read_ of. _after_ errour _i omit_ distroyeng (_gloss upon_ forgoing). . encreased. sette. . dothe. . gothe. worshippe. . wenyste. naye nay god wotte. . encreasyng. - . passeth (_twice_); passyst (_third time_). ete. . eatynge. become. . whome. . begon. ganne. . leaueth. wronge. withsay. . nowe. . done. . song. . howe. gate. . wyfe. . none. - . the (_twice_). . profyte. . done. . ferre. . stretcheth. . wretched. . respecte. . borne. . onely. . reason. . parfitely. howe. . one. . fye. . nothynge. . howe. great (_twice_). . nowe. . great. . maye. wolte. . fayre. one grayne of wheate. thousande. . one. thother. - . maye. . ofte; _read_ of the. made. one. . great. . none. . canste nothynge done. rumoure. . healed; _read_ deled? eare. . rewarde. . valoure. consyence. . _supply_ trewly, vertue. . prisone. guerdone. chapter ix. of twey thinges art thou answered, as me thinketh (quod love); and if any thing be in doute in thy soule, shewe it forth, thyn ignoraunce to clere, and leve it for no shame.' 'certes,' quod i, 'there is no body in this worlde, that aught coude saye by reson ayenst any of your skilles, as i leve; and by my witte now fele i wel, that yvel-spekers or berers of enfame may litel greve or lette my purpos, but rather by suche thinge my quarel to be forthered.' 'ye,' quod she,'and it is proved also, that the ilke jewel in my kepinge shal nat there-thorow be stered, of the lest moment that might be imagined.' 'that is soth,' quod i. 'wel,' quod she, 'than +leveth there, to declare that thy insuffisance is no maner letting, as thus: for that she is so worthy, thou shuldest not clymbe so highe; for thy moebles and thyn estate arn voyded, thou thinkest [thee] fallen in suche miserie, that gladnesse of thy pursute wol nat on thee discende.' 'certes,' quod i, 'that is sothe; right suche thought is in myn herte; for commenly it is spoken, and for an olde proverbe it is leged: "he that heweth to hye, with chippes he may lese his sight." wherfore i have ben about, in al that ever i might, to studye wayes of remedye by one syde or by another.' 'now,' quod she, 'god forbede +that thou seke any other doinges but suche as i have lerned thee in our restinge-whyles, and suche herbes as ben planted in oure gardins. thou shalt wel understande that above man is but oon god alone.' 'how,' quod i, 'han men to-forn this tyme trusted in writtes and chauntements, and in helpes of spirites that dwellen in the ayre, and therby they han getten their desyres, where-as first, for al his manly power, he daunced behynde?' 'o,' quod she, 'fy on suche maters! for trewly, that is sacrilege; and that shal have no sort with any of my servauntes; in myne eyen shal suche thing nat be loked after. how often is it commaunded by these passed wyse, that "to one god shal men serve, and not to goddes?" and who that liste to have myne helpes, shal aske none helpe of foule spirites. alas! is nat man maked semblable to god? wost thou nat wel, that al vertue of lyvelich werkinge, by goddes purveyaunce, is underput to resonable creature in erthe? is nat every thing, a this halfe god, mad buxom to mannes contemplation, understandinge in heven and in erthe and in helle? hath not man beinge with stones, soule of wexing with trees and herbes? hath he nat soule of felinge, with beestes, fisshes, and foules? and he hath soule of reson and understanding with aungels; so that in him is knit al maner of lyvinges by a resonable proporcioun. also man is mad of al the foure elementes. al universitee is rekened in him alone; he hath, under god, principalitè above al thinges. now is his soule here, now a thousand myle hence; now fer, now nygh; now hye, now lowe; as fer in a moment as in mountenaunce of ten winter; and al this is in mannes governaunce and disposicion. than sheweth it that men ben liche unto goddes, and children of moost heyght. but now, sithen al thinges [arn] underput to the wil of resonable creatures, god forbede any man to winne that lordship, and aske helpe of any-thing lower than him-selfe; and than, namely, of foule thinges innominable. now than, why shuldest thou wene to love to highe, sithen nothing is thee above but god alone? trewly, i wot wel that thilke jewel is in a maner even in lyne of degree there thou art thy-selfe, and nought above, save thus: aungel upon angel, man upon man, and devil upon devil han a maner of soveraigntee; and that shal cese at the daye of dome. and so i say: though thou be put to serve the ilke jewel duringe thy lyfe, yet is that no servage of underputtinge, but a maner of travayling plesaunce, to conquere and gette that thou hast not. i sette now the hardest: in my service now thou deydest, for sorowe of wantinge in thy desyres; trewly, al hevenly bodyes with one voyce shul come and make melody in thy cominge, and saye--"welcome, our fere, and worthy to entre into jupiters joye! for thou with might hast overcome deth; thou woldest never flitte out of thy service; and we al shul now praye to the goddes, rowe by rowe, to make thilk margarite, that no routh had in this persone, but unkyndely without comfort let thee deye, shal besette her-selfe in suche wyse, that in erthe, for parte of vengeaunce, shal she no joye have in loves service; and whan she is deed, than shal her soule ben brought up in-to thy presence; and whider thou wilt chese, thilke soule shal ben committed." or els, after thy deth, anon al the foresayd hevenly bodyes, by one accorde, shal +benimen from thilke perle al the vertues that firste her were taken; for she hath hem forfeyted by that on thee, my servaunt, in thy lyve, she wolde not suffre to worche al vertues, withdrawen by might of the hygh bodyes. why than shuldest thou wene so any more? and if thee liste to loke upon the lawe of kynde, and with order whiche to me was ordayned, sothely, non age, non overtourninge tyme but +hiderto had no tyme ne power to chaunge the wedding, ne the knotte to unbynde of two hertes [that] thorow oon assent, in my presence, +togider accorden to enduren til deth hem departe. what? trowest thou, every ideot wot the meninge and the privy entent of these thinges? they wene, forsothe, that suche accord may not be, but the rose of maydenhede be plucked. do way, do way; they knowe nothing of this. for consent of two hertes alone maketh the fasteninge of the knotte; neither lawe of kynde ne mannes lawe determineth neither the age ne the qualitè of persones, but only accord bitwene thilke twaye. and trewly, after tyme that suche accord, by their consent in hert, is enseled, and put in my tresorye amonges my privy thinges, than ginneth the name of spousayle; and although they breken forward bothe, yet suche mater enseled is kept in remembrance for ever. and see now that spouses have the name anon after accord, though the rose be not take. the aungel bad joseph take marye his spouse, and to egypte wende. lo! she was cleped "spouse," and yet, toforn ne after, neither of hem bothe mente no flesshly lust knowe. wherfore the wordes of trouthe acorden that my servauntes shulden forsake bothe +fader and moder, and be adherand to his spouse; and they two in unitè of one flesshe shulden accorde. and this wyse, two that wern firste in a litel maner discordaunt, hygher that oon and lower that other, ben mad evenliche in gree to stonde. but now to enfourme thee that ye ben liche to goddes, these clerkes sayn, and in determinacion shewen, that "three thinges haven [by] the names of goddes ben cleped; that is to sayn: man, divel, and images"; but yet is there but oon god, of whom al goodnesse, al grace, and al vertue cometh; and he +is loving and trewe, and everlasting, and pryme cause of al being thinges. but men ben goddes lovinge and trewe, but not everlasting; and that is by adopcioun of the everlastinge god. divels ben goddes, stirringe by a maner of lyving; but neither ben they trewe ne everlastinge; and their name of godliheed th[e]y han by usurpacion, as the prophete sayth: "al goddes of gentyles (that is to say, paynims) are divels." but images ben goddes by nuncupacion; and they ben neither livinge ne trewe, ne everlastinge. after these wordes they clepen "goddes" images wrought with mennes handes. but now [art thou a] resonable creature, that by adopcion alone art to the grete god everlastinge, and therby thou art "god" cleped: let thy +faders maners so entre thy wittes that thou might folowe, in-as-moche as longeth to thee, thy +faders worship, so that in nothinge thy kynde from his wil declyne, ne from his nobley perverte. in this wyse if thou werche, thou art above al other thinges save god alone; and so say no more "thyn herte to serve in to hye a place." ch. ix. . arte. . thynge. . thyne. leaue. . reason. . nowe. bearers. . purpose. . yea. . -thorowe. steered. . leneth; _read_ leueth. . thyne. . arne. _i supply_ thee. . the. . myne hert. . maye. . nowe. are; _read_ that. . the. . shalte. . one. . howe. to forne. . fye. . vnderputte. . thynge. made. . buxome. . manne. . reason. . knytte. . lyuenges. reasonable. made. . nowe. . nowe. nowe ferre nowe. thousande. . nowe (_twice_). ferre. momente. . tenne. disposytion. . nowe. _i supply_ arn. vnderputte. . reasonable. . lordshippe. thynge. . nothynge. the. . wote. euyn. . arte. . manne (_twice_). . soueraygntie. cease. . thoughe putte. . haste. - . nowe. . haste. dethe. . nowe pray. . _for_ in _read_ on? comforte. . lette the. . wylte. . dethe anone. . beno_m_men; _read_ benimen. . the. . the. . none (_twice_). . hytherto. . _supply_ that. thorowe one. . togyther. dethe. . ydeot wotte. . accorde. . waye (_twice_). . consente. . onely. - . accorde. . ensealed. . breaken forwarde. . ensealed. kepte. . se nowe. accorde. . bade. . toforne. . luste. . father and mother; _rather_, fader and moder. adherande. . werne. . one. . made. nowe. the. . sayne. . thre. _i supply_ by. . cleaped. . one. . his; _read_ is. . lyueng. . thy; _read_ they. . saythe. . cleapen. . nowe. _i supply_ art thou a. reasonable. . arte (_twice_). great. . lette. - . fathers; _read_ faders. . the. worshyppe. . arte. chapter x. fully have i now declared thyn estate to be good, so thou folow therafter, and that the +objeccion first +by thee aleged, in worthinesse of thy margaryte, shal not thee lette, as it shal forther thee, and encrese thee. it is now to declare, the last objeccion in nothing may greve.' 'yes, certes,' quod i, 'bothe greve and lette muste it nedes; the contrarye may not ben proved; and see now why. whyle i was glorious in worldly welfulnesse, and had suche goodes in welth as maken men riche, tho was i drawe in-to companyes that loos, prise, and name yeven. tho louteden blasours; tho curreyden glosours; tho welcomeden flatterers; tho worshipped thilke that now deynen nat to loke. every wight, in such erthly wele habundant, is holde noble, precious, benigne, and wyse to do what he shal, in any degree that men him sette; al-be-it that the sothe be in the contrarye of al tho thinges. but he that can never so wel him behave, and hath vertue habundaunt in manyfolde maners, and be nat welthed with suche erthly goodes, is holde for a foole, and sayd, his wit is but sotted. lo! how fals for aver is holde trewe! lo! how trewe is cleped fals for wanting of goodes! also, lady, dignitees of office maken men mikel comended, as thus: "he is so good, were he out, his pere shulde men not fynde." trewly, i trowe of some suche that are so praysed, were they out ones, another shulde make him so be knowe, he shulde of no wyse no more ben loked after: but only fooles, wel i wot, desyren suche newe thinges. wherfore i wonder that thilke governour, out of whom alone the causes proceden that governen al thinges, whiche that hath ordeyned this world in workes of the kyndely bodyes so be governed, not with unstedfast or happyous thing, but with rules of reson, whiche shewen the course of certayne thinges: why suffreth he suche slydinge chaunges, that misturnen suche noble thinges as ben we men, that arn a fayr parcel of the erthe, and holden the upperest degree, under god, of benigne thinges, as ye sayden right now your-selfe; shulde never man have ben set in so worthy a place but-if his degrè were ordayned noble. alas! thou that knittest the purveyaunce of al thinges, why lokest thou not to amenden these defautes? i see shrewes that han wicked maners sitten in chayres of domes, lambes to punisshen, there wolves shulden ben punisshed. lo! vertue, shynende naturelly, for povertee lurketh, and is hid under cloude; but the moone false, forsworn (as i knowe my-selfe) for aver and yeftes, hath usurped to shyne by day-light, with peynture of other mens praysinges; and trewly, thilke forged light fouly shulde fade, were the trouth away of colours feyned. thus is night turned in-to day, and day in-to night; winter in-to sommer, and sommer in-to winter; not in dede, but in misclepinge of foliche people.' 'now,' quod she, 'what wenest thou of these thinges? how felest thou in thyn hert, by what governaunce that this cometh aboute?' 'certes,' quod i, 'that wot i never; but-if it be that fortune hath graunt from above, to lede the ende of man as her lyketh.' 'ah! now i see,' quod she, 'th'entent of thy mening! lo, bycause thy worldly goodes ben fulliche dispent, thou beraft out of dignitè of office, in whiche thou madest the +gaderinge of thilke goodes, and yet diddest in that office by counsaile of wyse [before that] any thing were ended; and true were unto hem whos profit thou shuldest loke; and seest now many that in thilke hervest made of thee mokel, and now, for glosing of other, deyneth thee nought to forther, but enhaunsen false shrewes by witnessinge of trouthe! these thinges greveth thyn herte, to sene thy-selfe thus abated; and than, frayltè of mankynde ne setteth but litel by the lesers of suche richesse, have he never so moche vertue; and so thou wenest of thy jewel to renne in dispyt, and not ben accepted in-to grace. al this shal thee nothing hinder. now (quod she) first thou wost wel, thou lostest nothing that ever mightest thou chalenge for thyn owne. whan nature brought thee forth, come thou not naked out of thy +moders wombe? thou haddest no richesse; and whan thou shalt entre in-to the ende of every flesshly body, what shalt thou have with thee than? so, every richesse thou hast in tyme of thy livinge, nis but lent; thou might therin chalenge no propertee. and see now; every thing that is a mannes own, he may do therwith what him lyketh, to yeve or to kepe; bul richesse thou playnest from thee lost; if thy might had strecched so ferforth, fayn thou woldest have hem kept, multiplyed with mo other; and so, ayenst thy wil, ben they departed from thee; wherfore they were never thyn. and if thou laudest and joyest any wight, for he is stuffed with suche maner richesse, thou art in that beleve begyled; for thou wenest thilke joye to be selinesse or els ese; and he that hath lost suche happes to ben unsely.' 'ye, forsoth,' quod i. 'wel,' quod she, 'than wol i prove that unsely in that wise is to preise; and so the tother is, the contrary, to be lacked.' 'how so?' quod i. 'for unsely,' quod she, 'begyleth nat, but sheweth th'entent of her working. _et e contra_: selinesse begyleth. for in prosperitè she maketh a jape in blyndnesse; that is, she wyndeth him to make sorowe whan she withdraweth. wolt thou nat (quod she) preise him better that sheweth to thee his herte, tho[ugh] it be with bytande wordes and dispitous, than him that gloseth and thinketh in +his absence to do thee many harmes?' 'certes,' quod i, 'the oon is to commende; and the other to lacke and dispice.' 'a! ha!' quod she, 'right so ese, while +she lasteth, gloseth and flatereth; and lightly voydeth whan she most plesauntly sheweth; and ever, in hir absence, she is aboute to do thee tene and sorowe in herte. but unsely, al-be-it with bytande chere, sheweth what she is, and so doth not that other; wherfore unsely doth not begyle. selinesse disceyveth; unsely put away doute. that oon maketh men blynde; that other openeth their eyen in shewinge of wrecchidnesse. the oon is ful of drede to lese that is not his owne; that other is sobre, and maketh men discharged of mokel hevinesse in burthen. the oon draweth a man from very good; the other haleth him to vertue by the hookes of thoughtes. and wenist thou nat that thy disese hath don thee mokel more to winne than ever yet thou lostest, and more than ever the contrary made thee winne? is nat a greet good, to thy thinking, for to knowe the hertes of thy sothfast frendes? pardè, they ben proved to the ful, and the trewe have discevered fro the false. trewly, at the goinge of the ilke brotel joye, ther yede no more away than the ilke that was nat thyn proper. he was never from that lightly departed; thyn owne good therfore leveth it stille with thee. now good (quod she); for how moche woldest thou somtyme have bought this verry knowing of thy frendes from the flatteringe flyes that thee glosed, whan thou thought thy-selfe sely? but thou that playnest of losse in richesse, hast founden the most dere-worthy thing; that thou clepest unsely hath made thee moche thing to winnen. and also, for conclusioun of al, he is frende that now leveth nat his herte from thyne helpes. and if that margarite denyeth now nat to suffre her vertues shyne to thee-wardes with spredinge bemes, as far or farther than if thou were sely in worldly joye, trewly, i saye nat els but she is somdel to blame.' 'ah! pees,' quod i, 'and speke no more of this; myn herte breketh, now thou touchest any suche wordes!' 'a! wel!' quod she, 'thanne let us singen; thou herest no more of these thinges at this tyme.' thus endeth the firste book of the testament of love; and herafter foloweth the seconde. ch. x. . nowe. . abiection; _read_ objeccion. be; _read_ by. the. . the. . the. encrease the. nowe. . obiection. . let. . maye. se nowe. . nowe. . set. . can ne never; _omit_ ne. . wytte. false. . auer (_sic_); _for_ aueir (_avoir_). howe. cleaped. false. . onely. . wotte. new. . whome. . worlde. . reason. . arne a fayre parsel. . nowe. . se. . pouertie. . hydde. forsworne. . daye (_twice_). . miscleapynge. . wotte. . nowe i se. thentent. meanyng. . berafte. . gatherynge. . _i supply_ before that. . whose profyte. . nowe. . the (_twice_). nowe. . dispyte. . the. nowe. . woste. . the forthe. . mothers; _read_ moders. . the. . haste. lente. . propertie. se nowe. . owne. . the. . stretched. fayne. . the. . arte. . ease. loste. . howe. . thentent. . wolte. . the. . their; _read_ his. the. . one. . ease. he; _read_ she. . dothe. awaye. - . one (_twice_). . wretchydnesse. . one. . disease. . done the. . the. great. . pardy. . awaye. - . thyne. . leaueth. the. nowe. . howe. . the. . thynge. . cleapest. the. thynge. . nowe leaueth. . hert. nowe. . the. spreadynge beames. . farre. . somdele. . peace. myne. . breaketh nowe. . lette. book ii. chapter i. very welth may not be founden in al this worlde; and that is wel sene. lo! how in my mooste comfort, as i wende and moost supposed to have had ful answere of my contrary thoughtes, sodaynly it was vanisshed. and al the workes of man faren in the same wyse; whan folk wenen best her entent for to have and willes to perfourme, anon chaunging of the lift syde to the right halve tourneth it so clene in-to another kynde, that never shal it come to the first plyte in doinge. o this wonderful steering so soone otherwysed out of knowinge! but for my purpos was at the beginninge, and so dureth yet, if god of his grace tyme wol me graunt, i thinke to perfourme this worke, as i have begonne, in love; after as my thinne wit, with inspiracion of him that hildeth al grace, wol suffre. grevously, god wot, have i suffred a greet throwe that the romayne emperour, which in unitè of love shulde acorde, and every with other * * * * in cause of other to avaunce; and namely, sithe this empyre [nedeth] to be corrected of so many sectes in heresie of faith, of service, o[f] rule in loves religion. trewly, al were it but to shende erroneous opinions, i may it no lenger suffre. for many men there ben that sayn love to be in gravel and sande, that with see ebbinge and flowinge woweth, as riches that sodaynly vanissheth. and some sayn that love shulde be in windy blastes, that stoundmele turneth as a phane, and glorie of renomè, which after lustes of the varyaunt people is areysed or stilled. many also wenen that in the sonne and the moone and other sterres love shulde ben founden; for among al other planettes moste soveraynly they shynen, as dignitees in reverence of estates rather than good han and occupyen. ful many also there ben that in okes and in huge postes supposen love to ben grounded, as in strength and in might, whiche mowen not helpen their owne wrecchidnesse, whan they ginne to falle. but [of] suche diversitè of sectes, ayenst the rightful beleve of love, these errours ben forth spredde, that loves servantes in trewe rule and stedfast fayth in no place daren apere. thus irrecuperable joy is went, and anoy endless is entred. for no man aright reproveth suche errours, but [men] confirmen their wordes, and sayn, that badde is noble good, and goodnesse is badde; to which folk the prophete biddeth wo without ende. also manye tonges of greet false techinges in gylinge maner, principally in my tymes, not only with wordes but also with armes, loves servauntes and professe in his religion of trewe rule pursewen, to confounden and to distroyen. and for as moche as holy +faders, that of our christen fayth aproved and strengthed to the jewes, as to men resonable and of divinitè lerned, proved thilke fayth with resones, and with auctoritès of the olde testament and of the newe, her pertinacie to distroy: but to paynims, that for beestes and houndes were holde, to putte hem out of their errour, was +miracle of god shewed. these thinges were figured by cominge of th'angel to the shepherdes, and by the sterre to paynims kinges; as who sayth: angel resonable to resonable creature, and sterre of miracle to people bestial not lerned, wern sent to enforme. but i, lovers clerk, in al my conning and with al my mightes, trewly i have no suche grace in vertue of miracles, ne for no discomfit falsheedes suffyseth not auctoritès alone; sithen that suche [arn] heretikes and maintaynours of falsitès. wherfore i wot wel, sithen that they ben men, and reson is approved in hem, the clowde of errour hath her reson beyond probable resons, whiche that cacchende wit rightfully may not with-sitte. by my travaylinge studie i have ordeyned hem, +whiche that auctoritè, misglosed by mannes reson, to graunt shal ben enduced. now ginneth my penne to quake, to thinken on the sentences of the envyous people, whiche alway ben redy, both ryder and goer, to scorne and to jape this leude book; and me, for rancour and hate in their hertes, they shullen so dispyse, that although my book be leude, yet shal it ben more leude holden, and by wicked wordes in many maner apayred. certes, me thinketh, [of] the sowne of their badde speche right now is ful bothe myne eeres. o good precious margaryte, myne herte shulde wepe if i wiste ye token hede of suche maner speche; but trewly, i wot wel, in that your wysdom shal not asterte. for of god, maker of kynde, witnesse i took, that for none envy ne yvel have i drawe this mater togider; but only for goodnesse to maintayn, and errours in falsetees to distroy. wherfore (as i sayd) with reson i thinke, thilke forsayd errours to distroye and dequace. these resons and suche other, if they enduce men, in loves service, trewe to beleve of parfit blisse, yet to ful faithe in credence of deserte fully mowe they nat suffyse; sithen 'faith hath no merite of mede, whan mannes reson sheweth experience in doing.' for utterly no reson the parfit blisse of love by no waye may make to be comprehended. lo! what is a parcel of lovers joye? parfit science, in good service, of their desyre to comprehende in bodily doinge the lykinge of the soule; not as by a glasse to have contemplacion of tyme cominge, but thilke first imagined and thought after face to face in beholding. what herte, what reson, what understandinge can make his heven to be feled and knowe, without assaye in doinge? certes, noon. sithen thanne of love cometh suche fruite in blisse, and love in him-selfe is the most among other vertues, as clerkes sayn; the seed of suche springinge in al places, in al countreys, in al worldes shulde ben sowe. but o! welawaye! thilke seed is forsake, and +mowe not ben suffred, the lond-tillers to sette a-werke, without medlinge of cockle; badde wedes whiche somtyme stonken +han caught the name of love among idiotes and badde-meninge people. never-the-later, yet how-so-it-be that men clepe thilke +thing preciousest in kynde, with many eke-names, that other thinges that the soule yeven the ilke noble name, it sheweth wel that in a maner men have a greet lykinge in worshippinge of thilke name. wherfore this worke have i writte; and to thee, tytled of loves name, i have it avowed in a maner of sacrifyse; that, where-ever it be rad, it mowe in merite, by the excellence of thilke name, the more wexe in authoritè and worshippe of takinge in hede; and to what entent it was ordayned, the inseëres mowen ben moved. every thing to whom is owande occasion don as for his ende, aristotle supposeth that the actes of every thinge ben in a maner his final cause. a final cause is noblerer, or els even as noble, as thilke thing that is finally to thilke ende; wherfore accion of thinge everlasting is demed to be eternal, and not temporal; sithen it is his final cause. right so the actes of my boke 'love,' and love is noble; wherfore, though my book be leude, the cause with which i am stered, and for whom i ought it doon, noble forsothe ben bothe. but bycause that in conninge i am yong, and can yet but crepe, this leude a. b. c. have i set in-to lerning; for i can not passen the telling of three as yet. and if god wil, in shorte tyme, i shal amende this leudnesse in joininge syllables; whiche thing, for dulnesse of witte, i may not in three letters declare. for trewly i saye, the goodnesse of my margaryte-perle wolde yeve mater in endyting to many clerkes; certes, her mercy is more to me swetter than any livinges; wherfore my lippes mowen not suffyse, in speking of her ful laude and worshippe as they shulde. but who is that [wolde be wyse] in knowing of the orders of heven, and putteth his resones in the erthe? i forsothe may not, with blere eyen, the shyning sonne of vertue in bright whele of this margaryte beholde; therfore as yet i may her not discryve in vertue as i wolde. in tyme cominge, in another tretyse, thorow goddes grace, this sonne in clerenesse of vertue to be-knowe, and how she enlumineth al this day, i thinke to declare. ch. i. . howe. comforte. . hadde. . folke. . anone. . purpose. . wytte. . wotte. great. . _(something seems to be lost here)._ . _i supply_ nedeth. . o; _read_ of. . erronyous. maye. . menne. sayne. . amonge. . wretchydnesse. fal. _i supply_ of. . forthe. . stedfaste faythe. . darne. . endlesse. . _i supply_ men. . folke. . great. . onely. . fathers; _read_ faders. . faythe. . put. miracles; _read_ miracle. . thangel. . saythe. . werne. . discomfyte. . _i supply_ arn. . wotte. . reason. erroure. . reason. bewonde (_sic_). catchende wytte. . with; _read_ whiche. . reason. . nowe. . alwaye. . booke. rancoure. . althoughe. . booke. . _i supply_ of. nowe. . wotte. . wysdome . toke. . reason. . reasons. . parfyte. - . reason (_twice_). . parfyte. . maye. persel. . parfyte. . reason. . none. . amonge. sayne. - . sede. . mowen; _read_ mowe. . londe-tyllers. set. . hath; _read_ han. . meanynge. . howe. menne cleape. kynge (_sic_); _read_ thing. . great. . the. . radde. . thynge. done. . thynge. . boke. . done (_sic_). . yonge. . canne. sette. . thre. . thynge. maye. thre. . that in knowyng (_sic_); _supply_ wolde be wyse _before_ in knowing. . maye. . thorowe. . howe. chapter ii. in this mene whyle this comfortable lady gan singe a wonder mater of endytinge in latin; but trewly, the noble colours in rethorik wyse knitte were so craftely, that my conning wol not strecche to remembre; but the sentence, i trowe, somdel have i in mynde. certes, they were wonder swete of sowne, and they were touched al in lamentacion wyse, and by no werbles of myrthe. lo! thus gan she singe in latin, as i may constrewe it in our englisshe tonge. 'alas! that these hevenly bodyes their light and course shewen, as nature yave hem in commaundement at the ginning of the first age; but these thinges in free choice of reson han non understondinge. but man that ought to passe al thing of doinge, of right course in kynde, over-whelmed sothnesse by wrongful tytle, and hath drawen the sterre of envye to gon by his syde, that the clips of me, that shulde be his shynande sonne, so ofte is seye, that it wened thilke errour, thorow hem come in, shulde ben myn owne defaute. trewly, therfore, i have me withdrawe, and mad my dwellinge out of lande in an yle by my-selfe, in the occian closed; and yet sayn there many, they have me harberowed; but, god wot, they faylen. these thinges me greven to thinke, and namely on passed gladnesse, that in this worlde was wont me disporte of highe and lowe; and now it is fayled; they that wolden maystries me have in thilke stoundes. in heven on highe, above saturnes sphere, in sesonable tyme were they lodged; but now come queynte counsailours that in no house wol suffre me sojourne, wherof is pitè; and yet sayn some that they me have in celler with wyne shed; in gernere, there corn is layd covered with whete; in sacke, sowed with wolle; in purse, with money faste knit; among pannes mouled in a +whicche; in presse, among clothes layd, with riche pelure arayed; in stable, among hors and other beestes, as hogges, sheep, and neet; and in many other wyse. but thou, maker of light (in winking of thyn eye the sonne is queynt), wost right wel that i in trewe name was never thus herberowed. somtyme, toforn the sonne in the seventh partie was smiten, i bar both crosse and mytre, to yeve it where i wolde. with me the pope wente a-fote; and i tho was worshipped of al holy church. kinges baden me their crownes holden. the law was set as it shuld; tofore the juge, as wel the poore durste shewe his greef as the riche, for al his money. i defended tho taylages, and was redy for the poore to paye. i made grete feestes in my tyme, and noble songes, and maryed damoselles of gentil feture, withouten golde or other richesse. poore clerkes, for witte of schole, i sette in churches, and made suche persones to preche; and tho was service in holy churche honest and devout, in plesaunce bothe of god and of the people. but now the leude for symonye is avaunced, and shendeth al holy churche. now is steward, for his achates; now +is courtiour, for his debates; now is eschetour, for his wronges; now is losel, for his songes, personer; and [hath his] provendre alone, with whiche manye thrifty shulde encrese. and yet is this shrewe behynde; free herte is forsake; and losengeour is take. lo! it acordeth; for suche there ben that voluntarie lustes haunten in courte with ribaudye, that til midnight and more wol playe and wake, but in the churche at matins he is behynde, for yvel disposicion of his stomake; therfore he shulde ete bene-breed (and so did his syre) his estate ther-with to strengthen. his auter is broke, and lowe lyth, in poynte to gon to the erthe; but his hors muste ben esy and hye, to bere him over grete waters. his chalice poore, but he hath riche cuppes. no towayle but a shete, there god shal ben handled; and on his mete-borde there shal ben bord-clothes and towelles many payre. at masse serveth but a clergion; fyve squiers in hal. poore chaunsel, open holes in every syde; beddes of silke, with tapites going al aboute his chambre. poore masse-book and leud chapelayn, and broken surplice with many an hole; good houndes and many, to hunte after hart and hare, to fede in their feestes. of poore men have they greet care; for they ever crave and nothing offren, they wolden have hem dolven! but among legistres there dar i not come; my doinge[s], they sayn, maken hem nedy. they ne wolde for nothing have me in town; for than were tort and +force nought worth an hawe about, and plesen no men, but thilk grevous and torcious ben in might and in doing. these thinges to-forn-sayd mowe wel, if men liste, ryme; trewly, they acorde nothing. and for-as-moch as al thinges by me shulden of right ben governed, i am sory to see that governaunce fayleth, as thus: to sene smale and lowe governe the hye and bodies above. certes, that policye is naught; it is forbode by them that of governaunce treten and enformen. and right as beestly wit shulde ben subject to reson, so erthly power in it-selfe, the lower shulde ben subject to the hygher. what is worth thy body, but it be governed with thy soule? right so litel or naught is worth erthely power, but if reignatif prudence in heedes governe the smale; to whiche heedes the smale owen to obey and suffre in their governaunce. but soverainnesse ayenward shulde thinke in this wyse: "i am servaunt of these creatures to me delivered, not lord, but defendour; not mayster, but enfourmer; not possessour, but in possession; and to hem liche a tree in whiche sparowes shullen stelen, her birdes to norisshe and forth bringe, under suretee ayenst al raveynous foules and beestes, and not to be tyraunt them-selfe." and than the smale, in reste and quiete, by the heedes wel disposed, owen for their soveraynes helth and prosperitè to pray, and in other doinges in maintenaunce therof performe, withouten other administracion in rule of any maner governaunce. and they wit have in hem, and grace to come to suche thinges, yet shulde they cese til their heedes them cleped, although profit and plesaunce shulde folowe. but trewly, other governaunce ne other medlinge ought they not to clayme, ne the heedes on hem to putte. trewly, amonges cosinage dar i not come, but-if richesse be my mene; sothly, she and other bodily goodes maketh nigh cosinage, ther never propinquitè ne alyaunce in lyve was ne shulde have be, nere it for her medling maners; wherfore kindly am i not ther leged. povert of kinred is behynde; richesse suffreth him to passe; truly he saith, he com never of japhetes childre. whereof i am sory that japhetes children, for povert, in no linage ben rekened, and caynes children, for riches, be maked japhetes heires. alas! this is a wonder chaunge bitwene tho two noës children, sithen that of japhetes ofspring comeden knightes, and of cayn discended the lyne of servage to his brothers childre. lo! how gentillesse and servage, as cosins, bothe discended out of two brethern of one body! wherfore i saye in sothnesse, that gentilesse in kinrede +maketh not gentil linage in succession, without desert of a mans own selfe. where is now the lyne of alisaundre the noble, or els of hector of troye? who is discended of right bloode of lyne fro king artour? pardè, sir perdicas, whom that alisandre made to ben his heire in grece, was of no kinges bloode; his dame was a tombestere. of what kinred ben the gentiles in our dayes? i trow therfore, if any good be in gentilesse, it is only that it semeth a maner of necessitè be input to gentilmen, that they shulden not varyen fro the vertues of their auncestres. certes, al maner linage of men ben evenliche in birth; for oon +fader, maker of al goodnes, enformed hem al, and al mortal folk of one sede arn greyned. wherto avaunt men of her linage, in cosinage or in +elde-faders? loke now the ginning, and to god, maker of mans person; there is no clerk ne no worthy in gentilesse; and he that norissheth his +corage with vyces and unresonable lustes, and leveth the kynde course, to whiche ende him brought forth his birthe, trewly, he is ungentil, and among +cherles may ben nempned. and therfore, he that wol ben gentil, he mot daunten his flesshe fro vyces that causen ungentilnesse, and leve also reignes of wicked lustes, and drawe to him vertue, that in al places gentilnesse gentilmen maketh. and so speke i, in feminine gendre in general, of tho persones, at the reverence of one whom every wight honoureth; for her bountee and her noblesse y-made her to god so dere, that his moder she became; and she me hath had so greet in worship, that i nil for nothing in open declare, that in any thinge ayenst her secte may so wene. for al vertue and al worthinesse of plesaunce in hem haboundeth. and although i wolde any-thing speke, trewly i can not; i may fynde in yvel of hem no maner mater.' ch. ii. . meane. ganne. . stretche. somdele. . ganne. . none. . thynge. . sey; _read_ seye _or_ seyen. . thorowe. . made. . sayne. . wote. . wonte. . nowe. . seasonable. . sayne. . corne. . layde. . knytte. amonge (_twice_). wyche; _read_ whicche. . layde. . amonge horse. shepe. nete. . woste. . bare. . went. . grefe. . pay. great. . preache. . deuoute. . nowe. . nowe. . stewarde. nowe. it; _read_ is. nowe. . eschetoure. nowe. . _i supply_ hath his. . encrease. . eate beane-. . lythe. gone. horse. . easy. beare. great. . meate-. borde-. . boke. leude chapelayne. . harte. . great. . nothynge. . amonge. dare. . sayne. . forthe; _read_ force. . worthe. pleasen. . to-forne-. . nothynge. . sorye. se. . polesye. . treaten. wytte. . subiecte. reason. . worthe. . reignatyfe. . ayenwarde. . lorde. . possessoure. . forth bring. . suretie. . cease. . profyte. pleasaunce. . put. dare. . meane. . comeden (_sic_); _read_ comen? . howe. . bretherne. . maken; _read_ maketh. deserte. . nowe. . tombystere. . one. father; _read_ fader. . folke. arne. . -fathers; _read_ -faders. . clerke. . corare; _read_ corage. . leaueth. . forthe. . amonge. clerkes (!); _read_ cherles. . mote. . leaue. . bountie. . great. . maye. chapter iii. right with these wordes she stinte of that lamentable melodye; and i gan with a lyvely herte to praye, if that it were lyking unto her noble grace, she wolde her deyne to declare me the mater that firste was begonne, in which she lefte and stinte to speke beforn she gan to singe. 'o,' quod she, 'this is no newe thing to me, to sene you men desyren after mater, whiche your-selfe caused to voyde.' 'ah, good lady,' quod i, 'in whom victorie of strength is proved above al other thing, after the jugement of esdram, whos lordship al lignes: who is, that right as emperour hem commaundeth, whether thilke ben not women, in whos lyknesse to me ye aperen? for right as man halt the principaltè of al thing under his beinge, in the masculyne gender; and no mo genders ben there but masculyn and femenyne; al the remenaunt ben no gendres but of grace, in facultee of grammer: right so, in the femenyne, the women holden the upperest degree of al thinges under thilke gendre conteyned. who bringeth forth kinges, whiche that ben lordes of see and of erthe; and al peoples of women ben born. they norisshe hem that graffen vynes; they maken men comfort in their gladde cheres. her sorowe is deth to mannes herte. without women, the being of men were impossible. they conne with their swetnesse the crewel herte ravisshe, and make it meke, buxom, and benigne, without violence mevinge. in beautee of their eyen, or els of other maner fetures, is al mens desyres; ye, more than in golde, precious stones, either any richesse. and in this degree, lady, your-selfe many hertes of men have so bounden, that parfit blisse in womankynde to ben men wenen, and in nothinge els. also, lady, the goodnesse, the vertue of women, by propertè of discrecion, is so wel knowen, by litelnesse of malice, that desyre to a good asker by no waye conne they warne. and ye thanne, that wol not passe the kynde werchinge of your sectes by general discrecion, i wot wel, ye wol so enclyne to my prayere, that grace of my requeste shal fully ben graunted.' 'certes,' quod she, 'thus for the more parte fareth al mankynde, to praye and to crye after womans grace, and fayne many fantasyes to make hertes enclyne to your desyres. and whan these sely women, for freeltè of their kynde, beleven your wordes, and wenen al be gospel the promise of your behestes, than graunt[en] they to you their hertes, and fulfillen your lustes, wherthrough their libertè in maystreship that they toforn had is thralled; and so maked soverayn and to be prayed, that first was servaunt, and voice of prayer used. anon as filled is your lust, many of you be so trewe, that litel hede take ye of suche kyndnesse; but with traysoun anon ye thinke hem begyle, and let light of that thing whiche firste ye maked to you wonders dere; so what thing to women it is to loven any wight er she him wel knowe, and have him proved in many halfe! for every glittring thing is nat gold; and under colour of fayre speche many vices may be hid and conseled. therfore i rede no wight to trust on you to rathe; mens chere and her speche right gyleful is ful ofte. wherfore without good assay, it is nat worth on many +of you to truste. trewly, it is right kyndely to every man that thinketh women betraye, and shewen outward al goodnesse, til he have his wil performed. lo! the bird is begyled with the mery voice of the foulers whistel. whan a woman is closed in your nette, than wol ye causes fynden, and bere unkyndenesse her +on hande, or falsetè upon her putte, your owne malicious trayson with suche thinge to excuse. lo! than han women non other wreche in vengeaunce, but +blobere and wepe til hem list stint, and sorily her mishap complayne; and is put in-to wening that al men ben so untrewe. how often have men chaunged her loves in a litel whyle, or els, for fayling their wil, in their places hem set! for fren[d]ship shal be oon, and fame with another him list for to have, and a thirde for delyt; or els were he lost bothe in packe and in clothes! is this fair? nay, god wot. i may nat telle, by thousande partes, the wronges in trechery of suche false people; for make they never so good a bond, al sette ye at a myte whan your hert tourneth. and they that wenen for sorowe of you deye, the pitè of your false herte is flowe out of towne. alas! therfore, that ever any woman wolde take any wight in her grace, til she knowe, at the ful, on whom she might at al assayes truste! women con no more craft in queynt knowinge, to understande the false disceyvable conjectementes of mannes begylinges. lo! how it fareth; though ye men gronen and cryen, certes, it is but disceyt; and that preveth wel by th'endes in your werkinge. how many women have ben lorn, and with shame foule shent by long-lastinge tyme, whiche thorow mennes gyle have ben disceyved? ever their fame shal dure, and their dedes [ben] rad and songe in many londes; that they han don, recoveren shal they never; but alway ben demed lightly, in suche plyte a-yen shulde they falle. of whiche slaunders and tenes ye false men and wicked ben the verey causes; on you by right ought these shames and these reproves al hoolly discende. thus arn ye al nighe untrewe; for al your fayre speche, your herte is ful fickel. what cause han ye women to dispyse? better fruite than they ben, ne swetter spyces to your behove, mowe ye not fynde, as far as worldly bodyes strecchen. loke to their forminge, at the making of their persones by god in joye of paradyce! for goodnesse, of mans propre body were they maked, after the sawes of the bible, rehersing goddes wordes in this wyse: "it is good to mankynde that we make to him an helper." lo! in paradyse, for your helpe, was this tree graffed, out of whiche al linage of man discendeth. if a man be noble frute, of noble frute it is sprongen; the blisse of paradyse, to mennes sory hertes, yet in this tree abydeth. o! noble helpes ben these trees, and gentil jewel to ben worshipped of every good creature! he that hem anoyeth doth his owne shame; it is a comfortable perle ayenst al tenes. every company is mirthed by their present being. trewly, i wiste never vertue, but a woman were therof the rote. what is heven the worse though sarazins on it lyen? is your fayth untrewe, though +renegates maken theron lesinges? if the fyr doth any wight brenne, blame his owne wit that put him-selfe so far in the hete. is not fyr gentillest and most comfortable element amonges al other? fyr is cheef werker in fortheringe sustenaunce to mankynde. shal fyr ben blamed for it brende a foole naturelly, by his own stulty witte in steringe? ah! wicked folkes! for your propre malice and shreudnesse of your-selfe, ye blame and dispyse the precious[es]t thing of your kynde, and whiche thinges among other moste ye desyren! trewly, nero and his children ben shrewes, that dispysen so their dames. the wickednesse and gyling of men, in disclaundring of thilke that most hath hem glad[d]ed and plesed, were impossible to wryte or to nempne. never-the-later yet i say, he that knoweth a way may it lightly passe; eke an herbe proved may safely to smertande sores ben layd. so i say, in him that is proved is nothing suche yvels to gesse. but these thinges have i rehersed, to warne you women al at ones, that to lightly, without good assaye, ye assenten not to mannes speche. the sonne in the day-light is to knowen from the moone that shyneth in the night. now to thee thy-selfe (quod she) as i have ofte sayd, i knowe wel thyne herte; thou art noon of al the tofore-nempned people. for i knowe wel the continuaunce of thy service, that never sithen i sette thee a-werke, might thy margaryte for plesaunce, frendship, ne fayrhede of none other, be in poynte moved from thyne herte; wherfore in-to myne housholde hastely i wol that thou entre, and al the parfit privitè of my werking, make it be knowe in thy understonding, as oon of my privy familiers. thou desyrest (quod she) fayn to here of tho thinges there i lefte?' 'ye, forsothe,' quod i, 'that were to me a greet blisse.' 'now,' quod she, 'for thou shalt not wene that womans condicions for fayre speche suche thing belongeth:-- ch. iii. . ganne. . beforne. . thynge. menne. . thynge. whose. . lignes (_sic_). . whose lykenesse. . halte. . facultie. . forthe. . borne. . comforte. . dethe. . buxome. beautie. . parfyte. . wotte. . graunt. . toforne. . golde. . worthe. on; _read_ of. . -warde. . birde. . beare. vnha_n_de; _read_ on hande. . none. . bloder; _read_ blobere. . howe. . sette. frenship (_sic_). one. . lyste. delyte. . faire. . maye. tel. . bo_n_de. . dey. . trust. crafte. . howe. . thendes. howe. . lorne. longe-. . thorowe. . _i supply_ ben. radde. . done. . fal. . holy. . arne. . farre. stretchen. . dothe. . wyst. . faythe. thoughe rennogates. . leasynges. fyre (_four times_) . wytte. farre. heate. , . moste. . element comfortable; _read_ comfortable element. . chefe. . precioust. . amonge. - . gladed and pleased. . layde. . nowe. the. . arte none. . set the. . frendeshyp. fayrehede. . parfyte. . one. . fayne. . great. . nowe. chapter iv. thou shalt,' quod she, 'understonde first among al other thinges, that al the cure of my service to me in the parfit blisse in doing is desyred in every mannes herte, be he never so moche a wrecche; but every man travayleth by dyvers studye, and seke[th] thilke blisse by dyvers wayes. but al the endes are knit in selinesse of desyre in the parfit blisse, that is suche joye, whan men it have gotten, there +leveth no thing more to ben coveyted. but how that desyre of suche perfeccion in my service be kindely set in lovers hertes, yet her erroneous opinions misturne it by falsenesse of wening. and although mannes understanding be misturned, to knowe whiche shuld ben the way unto my person, and whither it abydeth; yet wote they there is a love in every wight, [whiche] weneth by that thing that he coveyteth most, he shulde come to thilke love; and that is parfit blisse of my servauntes; but than fulle blisse may not be, and there lacke any thing of that blisse in any syde. eke it foloweth than, that he that must have ful blisse lacke no blisse in love on no syde.' 'therfore, lady,' quod i tho, 'thilke blisse i have desyred, and +soghte toforn this my-selfe, by wayes of riches, of dignitè, of power, and of renomè, wening me in tho +thinges had ben thilke blisse; but ayenst the heer it turneth. whan i supposed beste thilke blisse have +getten, and come to the ful purpose of your service, sodaynly was i hindred, and throwen so fer abacke, that me thinketh an inpossible to come there i lefte.' 'i +wot wel,' quod she; 'and therfore hast thou fayled; for thou wentest not by the hye way. a litel misgoing in the ginning causeth mikil errour in the ende; wherfore of thilke blisse thou fayledest, for having of richesse; ne non of the other thinges thou nempnedest mowen nat make suche parfit blisse in love as i shal shewe. therfore they be nat worthy to thilke blisse; and yet somwhat must ben cause and way to thilke blisse. _ergo_, there is som suche thing, and som way, but it is litel in usage and that is nat openly y-knowe. but what felest in thyne hert of the service, in whiche by me thou art entred? wenest aught thy-selfe yet be in the hye way to my blisse? i shal so shewe it to thee, thou shalt not conne saye the contrary.' 'good lady,' quod i, 'altho i suppose it in my herte, yet wolde i here thyn wordes, how ye menen in this mater.' quod she, 'that i shal, with my good wil. thilke blisse desyred, som-del ye knowen, altho it be nat parfitly. for kyndly entencion ledeth you therto, but in three maner livinges is al suche wayes shewed. every wight in this world, to have this blisse, oon of thilke three wayes of lyves must procede; whiche, after opinions of grete clerkes, are by names cleped bestiallich, resonablich, [and manlich. resonablich] is vertuous. manlich is worldlich. bestialliche is lustes and delytable, nothing restrayned by bridel of reson. al that joyeth and yeveth gladnesse to the hert, and it be ayenst reson, is lykened to bestial living, which thing foloweth lustes and delytes; wherfore in suche thinge may nat that precious blisse, that is maister of al vertues, abyde. your +faders toforn you have cleped such lusty livinges after the flessh "passions of desyre," which are innominable tofore god and man both. than, after determinacion of suche wyse, we accorden that suche passions of desyre shul nat be nempned, but holden for absolute from al other livinges and provinges; and so +leveth in t[w]o livinges, manlich and resonable, to declare the maters begonne. but to make thee fully have understanding in manlich livinges, whiche is holden worldlich in these thinges, so that ignorance be mad no letter, i wol (quod she) nempne these forsayd wayes +by names and conclusions. first riches, dignitè, renomè, and power shul in this worke be cleped bodily goodes; for in hem hath ben, a gret throw, mannes trust of selinesse in love: as in riches, suffisance to have maintayned that was begonne by worldly catel; in dignitè, honour and reverence of hem that wern underput by maistry therby to obeye. in renomè, glorie of peoples praising, after lustes in their hert, without hede-taking to qualitè and maner of doing; and in power, by trouth of lordships mayntenaunce, thing to procede forth in doing. in al whiche thinges a longe tyme mannes coveytise in commune hath ben greetly grounded, to come to the blisse of my service; but trewly, they were begyled, and for the principal muste nedes fayle, and in helping mowe nat availe. see why. for holdest him not poore that is nedy?' 'yes, pardè,' quod i. 'and him for dishonored, that moche folk deyne nat to reverence?' 'that is soth,' quod i. 'and what him, that his mightes faylen and mowe nat helpen?' 'certes,' quod i, 'me semeth, of al men he shulde be holden a wrecche.' 'and wenest nat,' quod she, 'that he that is litel in renomè, but rather is out of the praysinges of mo men than a fewe, be nat in shame?' 'for soth,' quod i, 'it is shame and villany, to him that coveyteth renomè, that more folk nat prayse in name than preise.' 'soth,' quod she, 'thou sayst soth; but al these thinges are folowed of suche maner doinge, and wenden in riches suffisaunce, in power might, in dignitè worship, and in renomè glorie; wherfore they discended in-to disceyvable wening, and in that service disceit is folowed. and thus, in general, thou and al suche other that so worchen, faylen of my blisse that ye long han desyred. wherfore truly, in lyfe of reson is the hye way to this blisse; as i thinke more openly to declare herafter. never-the-later yet, in a litel to comforte thy herte, in shewing of what waye thou art entred *selfe, and that thy margarite may knowe thee set in the hye way, i wol enforme thee in this wyse. thou hast fayled of thy first purpos, bicause thou wentest wronge and leftest the hye way on thy right syde, as thus: thou lokedest on worldly living, and that thing thee begyled; and lightly therfore, as a litel assay, thou songedest; but whan i turned thy purpos, and shewed thee a part of the hye waye, tho thou abode therin, and no deth ne ferdnesse of non enemy might thee out of thilk way reve; but ever oon in thyn herte, to come to the ilke blisse, whan thou were arested and firste tyme enprisoned, thou were loth to chaunge thy way, for in thy hert thou wendest to have ben there thou shuldest. and for i had routhe to sene thee miscaried, and wiste wel thyn ablenesse my service to forther and encrese, i com my-selfe, without other mene, to visit thy person in comfort of thy hert. and perdy, in my comming thou were greetly glad[d]ed; after whiche tyme no disese, no care, no tene, might move me out of thy hert. and yet am i glad and greetly enpited, how continually thou haddest me in mynde, with good avysement of thy conscience, whan thy king and his princes by huge wordes and grete loked after variaunce in thy speche; and ever thou were redy for my sake, in plesaunce of the margarite-perle and many mo other, thy body to oblige in-to marces doing, if any contraried thy sawes. stedfast way maketh stedfast hert, with good hope in the ende. trewly, i wol that thou it wel knowe; for i see thee so set, and not chaunginge herte haddest in my service; and i made thou haddest grace of thy kinge, in foryevenesse of mikel misdede. to the gracious king art thou mikel holden, of whos grace and goodnesse somtyme hereafter i thinke thee enforme, whan i shew the ground where-as moral vertue groweth. who brought thee to werke? who brought this grace aboute? who made thy hert hardy? trewly, it was i. for haddest thou of me fayled, than of this purpos had[dest thou] never taken [hede] in this wyse. and therfore i say, thou might wel truste to come to thy blisse, sithen thy ginninge hath ben hard, but ever graciously after thy hertes desyr hath proceded. silver fyned with many hetes men knowen for trew; and safely men may trust to the alay in werkinge. this +disese hath proved what way hence-forward thou thinkest to holde.' 'now, in good fayth, lady,' quod i tho, 'i am now in; me semeth, it is the hye way and the right.' 'ye, forsothe,' quod she, 'and now i wol disprove thy first wayes, by whiche many men wenen to gette thilke blisse. but for-as-moche as every herte that hath caught ful love, is tyed with queynt knittinges, thou shalt understande that love and thilke foresayd blisse toforn declared in this[e] provinges, shal hote the knot in the hert.' 'wel,' quod i, 'this inpossession i wol wel understande.' 'now also,' quod she, 'for the knotte in the herte muste ben from one to an-other, and i knowe thy desyr, i wol thou understande these maters to ben sayd of thy-selfe, in disproving of thy first service, and in strengthinge of thilke that thou hast undertake to thy margaryte-perle.' 'a goddes halfe,' quod i, 'right wel i fele that al this case is possible and trewe; and therfore i +admitte it altogither.' '+understand wel,' quod she, 'these termes, and loke no contradiccion thou graunt.' 'if god wol,' quod i, 'of al these thinges wol i not fayle; and if i graunt contradiccion, i shulde graunte an impossible; and that were a foul inconvenience; for whiche thinges, lady, y-wis, herafter i thinke me to kepe.' ch. iv. . shalte. amonge. . parfyte. . wretche. . seke; _read_ seketh. . p_ar_fyte. . lyueth; _read_ leveth. thynge. . howe. perfection. . erronyous. . _i supply_ whiche. . moste. . parfyte. maye. . thynge. . sothe; _read_ soghte. toforne. . thrages (_sic_); _read_ thinges. . heere. . get; _read_ getten. . wol; _read_ wot. . p_ar_fite. . some (_twice_). . the. shalte. con. . howe ye meanen. . so_m_e deale. . entention. thre. lyuenges. . one. . thre. . great. cleaped. _i supply_ and manlich. resonablich. . nothynge. - . reason (_twice_). . lyueng. thynge. . maye. . fathers. toforne. . lyuenges. . determination. . lyuenges (_twice_). lyueth; _read_ leveth. to; _read_ two. . the. . lyuenges. . made. . be; _read_ by. . cleaped. . begon. . werne. . obey. . greatly. . se. . folke. . wretch. . disceite. . reason. . arte. - . the (_twice_). - . purpose. . lyueng. . the. - . the. . parte. dethe. . one. . the. . wyst. thyne. encrease. . come. mean. _for_ person _read_ prison? comforte. . greatly gladed. . disease. . gladde. greatly. . howe. . great. . peerle. . se the. . arte. . whose. . the. grounde. . the. . purpose. had; _read_ haddest thou. _i supply_ hede. . harde. . desyre. . heates. . diseases (_sic_). waye. -forwarde. - . nowe (_four times_). . toforne. . desyre. . stre_n_ghthynge. haste. . admytted; _read_ admytte it. . vnderstanden (_sic_). - . contradyction (_twice_). . foule. ladye. chapter v. 'wel,' quod she, 'thou knowest that every thing is a cause, wherthrough any thing hath being that is cleped "caused." than, if richesse +causeth knot in herte, thilke richesse +is cause of thilke precious thinge being. but after the sentence of aristotle, every cause is more in dignitè than his thinge caused; wherthrough it foloweth richesse to ben more in dignitè than thilke knot. but richesses arn kyndely naughty, badde, and nedy; and thilke knotte is thing kyndely good, most praysed and desyred. _ergo_, thing naughty, badde, and nedy in kyndely understandinge is more worthy than thing kyndely good, most desyred and praysed! the consequence is fals; nedes, the antecedent mot ben of the same condicion. but that richesses ben bad, naughty, and nedy, that wol i prove; wherfore they mowe cause no suche thing that is so glorious and good. the more richesse thou hast, the more nede hast thou of helpe hem to kepe. _ergo_, thou nedest in richesse, whiche nede thou shuldest not have, if thou hem wantest. than muste richesse ben nedy, that in their having maken thee nedy to helpes, in suretee thy richesse to kepen; wherthrough foloweth, richesse to ben nedy. everything causinge yvels is badde and naughty; but richesse in one causen misese, in another they mowen not evenly strecchen al about. wherof cometh plee, debat, thefte, begylinges, but richesse to winne; whiche thinges ben badde, and by richesse arn caused. _ergo_, thilke richesse[s] ben badde; whiche badnesse and nede ben knit in-to richesse by a maner of kyndely propertee; and every cause and caused accorden; so that it foloweth, thilke richesse[s] to have the same accordaunce with badnesse and nede, that their cause asketh. also, every thing hath his being by his cause; than, if the cause be distroyed, the being of caused is vanisshed. and, so, if richesse[s] causen love, and richesse[s] weren distroyed, the love shulde vanisshe; but thilke knotte, and it be trewe, may not vanisshe, for no going of richesse. _ergo_, richesse is no cause of the knot. and many men, as i sayd, setten the cause of the knotte in richesse; thilke knitten the richesse, and nothing the yvel; thilke persons, what-ever they ben, wenen that riches is most worthy to be had; and that make they the cause; and so wene they thilke riches be better than the person. commenly, suche asken rather after the quantitè than after the qualitè; and suche wenen, as wel by hem-selfe as by other, that conjunccion of his lyfe and of his soule is no more precious, but in as mikel as he hath of richesse. alas! how may he holden suche thinges precious or noble, that neither han lyf ne soule, ne ordinaunce of werchinge limmes! suche richesse[s] ben more worthy whan they ben in +gadering; in departing, ginneth his love of other mennes praysing. and avarice +gadering maketh be hated, and nedy to many out-helpes; and whan leveth the possession of such goodes, and they ginne vanissh, than entreth sorowe and tene in their hertes. o! badde and strayte ben thilke, that at their departinge maketh men teneful and sory, and in the +gadering of hem make men nedy! moche folk at ones mowen not togider moche therof have. a good gest gladdeth his hoste and al his meyny; but he is a badde gest that maketh his hoste nedy and to be aferd of his gestes going.' 'certes,' quod i, 'me wondreth therfore that the comune opinion is thus: "he is worth no more than that he hath in catel."' 'o!' quod she, 'loke thou be not of that opinion; for if gold or money, or other maner of riches shynen in thy sight, whos is that? nat thyn. and tho[ugh] they have a litel beautee, they be nothing in comparison of our kynde; and therfore, ye shulde nat sette your worthinesse in thing lower than your-selfe. for the riches, the fairnesse, the worthinesse of thilke goodes, if ther be any suche preciousnesse in hem, are nat thyne; thou madest hem so never; from other they come to thee, and to other they shul from thee. wherfore enbracest thou other wightes good, as tho[ugh] they were thyn? kynde hath drawe hem by hem-selfe. it is sothe, the goodes of the erth ben ordayned in your fode and norisshinge; but if thou wolt holde thee apayd with that suffyseth to thy kynde, thou shalt nat be in daunger of no suche riches; to kynde suffyseth litel thing, who that taketh hede. and if thou wolt algates with superfluitè of riches be a-throted, thou shalt hastelich be anoyed, or els yvel at ese. and fairnesse of feldes ne of habitacions, ne multitude of meynè, may nat be rekened as riches that are thyn owne. for if they be badde, it is greet sclaunder and villany to the occupyer; and if they be good or faire, the mater of the workman that hem made is to prayse. how shulde other-wyse bountee be compted for thyne? thilke goodnesse and fairnesse be proper to tho thinges hem-selfe; than, if they be nat thyne, sorow nat whan they wende, ne glad thee nat in pompe and in pride whan thou hem hast. for their bountee and their beautees cometh out of their owne kynde, and nat of thyne owne person. as faire ben they in their not having as whan thou hast hem. they be nat faire for thou hast hem; but thou hast geten hem for the fairnesse of them-selfe. and there the vaylance of men is demed in richesse outforth, wenen me[n] to have no proper good in them-selfe, but seche it in straunge thinges. trewly, the condicion of good wening is to thee mistourned, to wene, your noblesse be not in your-selfe, but in the goodes and beautee of other thinges. pardy, the beestes that han but feling soules, have suffisaunce in their owne selfe; and ye, that ben lyke to god, seken encrese of suffisaunce from so excellent a kynde of so lowe thinges; ye do greet wrong to him that you made lordes over al erthly thinges; and ye putte your worthinesse under the nombre of the fete of lower thinges and foule. whan ye juge thilke riches to be your worthinesse, than putte ye your-selfe, by estimacion, under thilke foule thinges; and than leve ye the knowing of your-selfe; so be ye viler than any dombe beest; that cometh of shrewde vice. right so thilke persons that loven non yvel for dereworthinesse of the persone, but for straunge goodes, and saith, the adornement in the knot lyth in such thing; his errour is perilous and shrewd, and he wryeth moche venim with moche welth; and that knot may nat be good whan he hath it getten. certes, thus hath riches with flickering sight anoyed many; and often, whan there is a throw-out shrewe, he coyneth al the gold, al the precious stones that mowen be founden, to have in his bandon; he weneth no wight be worthy to have suche thinges but he alone. how many hast thou knowe, now in late tyme, that in their richesse supposed suffisance have folowed, and now it is al fayled!' 'ye, lady,' quod i, 'that is for mis medling; and otherwyse governed [they] thilke richesse than they shulde.' 'ye,' quod she tho, 'had not the flood greetly areysed, and throwe to-hemward both gravel and sand, he had mad no medlinge. and right as see yeveth flood, so draweth see ebbe, and pulleth ayen under wawe al the firste out-throwe, but-if good pyles of noble governaunce in love, in wel-meninge maner, ben sadly grounded; +the whiche holde thilke gravel as for a tyme, that ayen lightly mowe not it turne; and if the pyles ben trewe, the gravel and sand wol abyde. and certes, ful warning in love shalt thou never thorow hem get ne cover, that lightly with an ebbe, er thou be ware, it [ne] wol ayen meve. in richesse many men have had tenes and diseses, whiche they shulde not have had, if therof they had fayled. thorow whiche, now declared, partly it is shewed, that for richesse shulde the knotte in herte neither ben caused in one ne in other; trewly, knotte may ben knit, and i trowe more stedfast, in love, though richesse fayled; and els, in richesse is the knotte, and not in herte. and than suche a knotte is fals; whan the see ebbeth and withdraweth the gravel, that such richesse voydeth, thilke knotte wol unknitte. wherfore no trust, no way, no cause, no parfit being is in richesse, of no suche knotte. therfore another way muste we have. ch. v. . thynge. . -throughe. . causen; _read_ causeth. arne; _read_ is. . arne. , . thynge (_twice_). moste. . thynge. moste. . false. . mote. . haste. . the. . suretie. . misease. . stretchen. debate. . arne. richesse; _read_ richesses. . propertie. - . richesse; _read_ richesses (_thrice_). . nothynge. . coniunction. . howe maye. . lyfe. . richesse; _read_ richesses. - . gatheryng. . gatheryng. folke. . aferde. . worthe. . golde. . whose. . beautie. . set. - . the (_twice_). . wolte. the apayde. . ease. . maye. . great. . workeman. . howe. bountie. . the. . bountie. beautes. - . haste (_thrice_). . me; _read_ men. . co_n_dytion. . the. . beautie. . encrease. . great. - . put (_twice_). . shreude. . maye. . throwe out. . golde. . howe. haste. - . nowe. . misse medlyng. . _supply_ they. . floode greatly. . hemwarde. sande. made. . floode. . out throw. . meanynge. . to; _read_ the. . sande. . shalte. thorowe. . beware. _i supply_ ne. . diseases. . thorowe. nowe. partely. . maye. knytte. . false. . parfyte. chapter vi. honour in dignitè is wened to yeven a ful knot.' 'ye, certes,' quod i, 'and of that opinion ben many; for they sayn, dignitè, with honour and reverence, causen hertes to encheynen, and so abled to be knit togither, for the excellence in soverayntè of such degrees.' 'now,' quod she, 'if dignitè, honour, and reverence causen thilke knotte in herte, this knot is good and profitable. for every cause of a cause is cause of thing caused. than thus: good thinges and profitable ben by dignitè, honour, and reverence caused. _ergo_, they accorden; and dignites ben good with reverences and honour. but contraries mowen not accorden. wherfore, by reson, there shulde no dignitee, no reverence, non honour acorde with shrewes. but that is fals; they have ben cause to shrewes in many shreudnes; for with hem they accorden. _ergo_, from beginning to argue ayenward til it come to the laste conclusion, they are not cause of the knot. lo, al day at eye arn shrewes not in reverence, in honour, and in dignitè? yes, forsothe, rather than the good. than foloweth it that shrewes rather than good shul ben cause of this knot. but of this [the] contrarie of al lovers is bileved, and for a sothe openly determined to holde.' 'now,' quod i, 'fayn wolde i here, how suche dignitees acorden with shrewes.' 'o,' quod she, 'that wol i shewe in manifolde wyse. ye wene (quod she) that dignites of office here in your citè is as the sonne; it shyneth bright withouten any cloude; [of] whiche thing, whan they comen in the handes of malicious tirauntes, there cometh moche harm, and more grevaunce therof than of the wilde fyre, though it brende al a strete. certes, in dignitè of office, the werkes of the occupyer shewen the malice and the badnesse in the person; with shrewes they maken manyfolde harmes, and moche people shamen. how often han rancours, for malice of the governour, shulde ben mainteyned? hath not than suche dignitees caused debat, rumours, and yvels? yes, god wot, by suche thinges have ben trusted to make mens understanding enclyne to many queynte thinges. thou wottest wel what i mene.' 'ye,' quod i, 'therfore, as dignitè suche thing in tene y-wrought, so ayenward, the substaunce in dignitè chaunged, relyed to bring ayen good plyte in doing.' 'do way, do way,' quod she; 'if it so betyde, but that is selde, that suche dignitè is betake in a good mannes governaunce, what thing is to recken in the dignitees goodnesse? pardè, the bountee and goodnesse is hers that usen it in good governaunce; and therfore cometh it that honour and reverence shulde ben don to dignitè bycause of encresinge vertue in the occupyer, and not to the ruler bycause of soverayntee in dignitè. sithen dignitè may no vertue cause, who is worthy worship for suche goodnesse? not dignitè, but person, that maketh goodnesse in dignitè to shyne.' 'this is wonder thing,' quod i; 'for me thinketh, as the person in dignitè is worthy honour for goodnesse, so, tho[ugh] a person for badnesse ma[u]gree hath deserved, yet the dignitè leneth to be commended.' 'let be,' quod she, 'thou errest right foule; dignitè with badnesse is helper to performe the felonous doing. pardy, were it kyndly good, or any propertè of kyndly vertue [that men] hadden in hem-selfe, shrewes shulde hem never have; with hem shulde they never accorde. water and fyr, that ben contrarious, mowen nat togider ben assembled; kynde wol nat suffre suche contraries to joyne. and sithen at eye, by experience in doing, we seen that shrewes have hem more often than good men, siker mayst thou be, that kyndly good in suche thing is nat appropred. pardy, were they kyndly good, as wel oon as other shulden evenlich in vertue of governaunce ben worthe; but oon fayleth in goodnesse, another doth the contrary; and so it sheweth, kyndly goodnesse in dignitè nat be grounded. and this same reson (quod she) may be mad, in general, on al the bodily goodes; for they comen ofte to throw-out shrewes. after this, he is strong that hath might to have grete burthens, and he is light and swifte, that hath soveraintè in ronning to passe other; right so he is a shrewe, on whom shreude thinges and badde han most werchinge. and right as philosophy maketh philosophers, and my service maketh lovers, right so, if dignites weren good or vertuous, they shulde maken shrewes good, and turne her malice, and make hem be vertuous. but that they do nat, as it is proved, but causen rancour and debat. _ergo_, they be nat good, but utterly badde. had nero never ben emperour, shulde never his dame have be slayn, to maken open the privitè of his engendrure. herodes, for his dignitè, slew many children. the dignitè of king john wolde have distroyed al england. therfore mokel wysdom and goodnesse both, nedeth in a person, the malice in dignitè slyly to brydel, and with a good bitte of arest to withdrawe, in case it wolde praunce otherwyse than it shulde. trewly, ye yeve to dignites wrongful names in your cleping. they shulde hete, nat dignitè, but moustre of badnesse and mayntenour of shrewes. pardy, shyne the sonne never so bright, and it bringe forth no hete, ne sesonably the herbes out-bringe of the erthe, but suffre frostes and cold, and the erthe barayne to ligge by tyme of his compas in circute about, ye wolde wonder, and dispreyse that sonne! if the mone be at ful, and sheweth no light, but derke and dimme to your sight appereth, and make distruccion of the waters, wol ye nat suppose it be under cloude or in clips, and that som prevy thing, unknowen to your wittes, is cause of suche contrarious doinge? than, if clerkes, that han ful insight and knowing of suche impedimentes, enforme you of the sothe, very idiottes ye ben, but-if ye yeven credence to thilk clerkes wordes. and yet it doth me tene, to sene many wrecches rejoycen in such maner planettes. trewly, litel con[ne] they on philosophy, or els on my lore, that any desyr haven suche lightinge planettes in that wyse any more to shewe.' 'good lady,' quod i, 'tel me how ye mene in these thinges.' 'lo,' quod she, 'the dignites of your citè, sonne and mone, nothing in kynde shew their shyning as they shulde. for the sonne made no brenning hete in love, but freesed envye in mennes hertes, for feblenesse of shyning hete; and the moone was about, under an olde cloude, the livinges by waters to distroye.' 'lady,' quod i, 'it is supposed they had shyned as they shulde.' 'ye,' quod she, 'but now it is proved at the ful, their beautè in kyndly shyning fayled; wherfore dignitè of him-selven hath no beautee in fayrnesse, ne dryveth nat awaye vices, but encreseth; and so be they no cause of the knotte. now see, in good trouth; holde ye nat such sonnes worthy of no reverence, and dignites worthy of no worship, that maketh men to do the more harmes?' 'i not,' quod i. 'no?' quod she; 'and thou see a wyse good man, for his goodnesse and wysnesse wolt thou nat do him worship? therof he is worthy.' 'that is good skil,' quod i; 'it is dewe to suche, both reverence and worship to have.' 'than,' quod she, 'a shrewe, for his shreudnesse, altho he be put forth toforn other for ferde, yet is he worthy, for shrewdnesse, to be unworshipped; of reverence no part is he worthy to have, [that] to contrarious doing belongeth: and that is good skil. for, right as he besmyteth the dignites, thilke same thing ayenward him smyteth, or els shulde smyte. and over this thou wost wel (quod she) that fyr in every place heteth where it be, and water maketh wete. why? for kyndely werking is so y-put in hem, to do suche thinges; for every kyndely in werking sheweth his kynde. but though a wight had ben mayre of your city many winter togider, and come in a straunge place there he were not knowen, he shulde for his dignitè have no reverence. than neither worshippe ne reverence is kyndely propre in no dignitè, sithen they shulden don their kynde in suche doinge, if any were. and if reverence ne worshippe kyndely be not set in dignitees, and they more therein ben shewed than goodnesse, for that in dignitè is shewed, but it proveth that goodnesse kyndely in hem is not grounded. i-wis, neither worshippe, ne reverence, ne goodnesse in dignitè don non office of kynde; for they have non suche propertee in nature of doinge but by false opinion of the people. lo! how somtyme thilke that in your city wern in dignitè noble, if thou liste hem nempne, they ben now overturned bothe in worship, in name, and in reverence; wherfore such dignites have no kyndly werching of worshippe and of reverence. he that hath no worthinesse on it-selfe, now it ryseth and now it vanissheth, after the variaunt opinion in false hertes of unstable people. wherfore, if thou desyre the knotte of this jewel, or els if thou woldest suppose she shulde sette the knotte on thee for suche maner dignitè, than thou wenest beautee or goodnesse of thilke somwhat encreseth the goodnesse or vertue in the body. but dignite[es] of hemself ben not good, ne yeven reverence ne worshippe by their owne kynde. how shulde they than yeve to any other a thing, that by no waye mowe they have hem-selfe? it is sene in dignitè of the emperour and of many mo other, that they mowe not of hem-selve kepe their worshippe ne their reverence; that, in a litel whyle, it is now up and now downe, by unstedfaste hertes of the people. what bountee mowe they yeve that, with cloude, lightly leveth his shyninge? certes, to the occupyer is mokel appeyred, sithen suche doinge doth villanye to him that may it not mayntayne. wherfore thilke way to the knotte is croked; and if any desyre to come to the knot, he must leve this way on his lefte syde, or els shal he never come there. ch. vi. . sayne. . knytte. . nowe. . reason. none. . false. . ayenwarde. . arne. . _supply_ the. . nowe. fayne. howe. . _i supply_ of. thynge. . harme. . howe. . debate. . wote. . meane. . ayenwarde. . bountie. . honoure. . done. encreasynge. . soverayntie. . magre. . _supply_ that. men _and_ it. . fire. . ioyn. . sene. menne. . mayste. - . one (_twice_). . dothe. . made. . throwe out. . great burthyns. . debate. . slewe. . engla_n_de. . wysedom. . bring forthe. heate. . colde. . son. . distruction. . some. . wretches. . con; _read_ conne. . desyre. . howe. mean. . lyuenges. . nowe. . beautie. encreaseth. . nowe se. . se. . wysenesse wolte. . forthe toforne. . parte. . _i supply_ that. . ayenwarde. . woste. . fyre. heateth. . cytie. . done none. none. . propertie. . howe. cytie werne. . nowe. . _for_ he _read_ that thing? - . nowe (_twice_). . the. beautie. . encreaseth. . dignite; _read_ dignitees. . howe. . thynge. . that that; _read_ that. nowe (_twice_). . bountie. . leaueth. . dothe. . maye. waye. . leaue. waye. chapter vii. avayleth aught (quod she) power of might in mayntenaunce of [men, to maken hem] worthy to come to this knot?' 'parde,' quod i, 'ye; for hertes ben ravisshed from suche maner thinges.' 'certes,' quod she, 'though a fooles herte is with thing ravisshed, yet therfore is no general cause of the powers, ne of a siker parfit herte to be loked after. was not nero the moste shrewe oon of thilke that men rede, and yet had he power to make senatours justices, and princes of many landes? was not that greet power?' 'yes, certes,' quod i. 'wel,' quod she, 'yet might he not helpe him-selfe out of disese, whan he gan falle. how many ensamples canst thou remembre of kinges grete and noble, and huge power +helden, and yet they might not kepe hem-selve from wrecchednesse? how wrecched was king henry curtmantil er he deyde? he had not so moche as to cover with his membres; and yet was he oon of the grettest kinges of al the normandes ofspring, and moste possession had. o! a noble thing and clere is power, that is not founden mighty to kepe him-selfe! now, trewly, a greet fole is he, that for suche thing wolde sette the knotte in thyne herte! also power of rëalmes, is not thilke grettest power amonges the worldly powers reckened? and if suche powers han wrecchednesse in hem-selfe, it foloweth other powers of febler condicion to ben wrecched; and than, that wrecchednesse shulde be cause of suche a knotte! but every wight that hath reson wot wel that wrecchednesse by no way may ben cause of none suche knotte; wherfore suche power is no cause. that powers have wrecchednesse in hem-selfe, may right lightly ben preved. if power lacke on any syde, on that syde is no power; but no power is wrecchednesse: for al-be-it so the power of emperours or kinges, or els of their rëalmes (which is the power of the prince) strecchen wyde and brode, yet besydes is ther mokel folk of whiche he hath no commaundement ne lordshippe; and there-as lacketh his power, his nonpower entreth, where-under springeth that maketh hem wrecches. no power is wrecchednesse and nothing els; but in this maner hath kinges more porcion of wrecchednesse than of power. trewly, suche powers ben unmighty; for ever they ben in drede how thilke power from lesing may be keped of sorow; so drede sorily prikkes ever in their hertes: litel is that power whiche careth and ferdeth it-selfe to mayntayne. unmighty is that wrecchednesse whiche is entred by the ferdful weninge of the wrecche him-selfe; and knot y-maked by wrecchednesse is betwene wrecches; and wrecches al thing bewaylen; wherfore the knot shulde be bewayled; and there is no suche parfit blisse that we supposed at the ginning! _ergo_, power in nothing shulde cause suche knottes. wrecchednesse is a kyndely propertee in suche power, as by way of drede, whiche they mowe nat eschewe, ne by no way live in sikernesse. for thou wost wel (quod she) he is nought mighty that wolde don that he may not don ne perfourme.' 'therfore,' quod i, 'these kinges and lordes that han suffisaunce at the ful of men and other thinges, mowen wel ben holden mighty; their comaundementes ben don; it is nevermore denyed.' 'foole,' quod she, 'or he wot him-selfe mighty, or wot it not; for he is nought mighty that is blynde of his might and wot it not.' 'that is sothe,' quod i. 'than if he wot it, he must nedes ben a-drad to lesen it. he that wot of his might is in doute that he mote nedes lese; and so ledeth him drede to ben unmighty. and if he recche not to lese, litel is that worth that of the lesing reson reccheth nothing; and if it were mighty in power or in strength, the lesing shulde ben withset; and whan it cometh to the lesing, he may it not withsitte. _ergo_, thilke might is leude and naughty. such mightes arn y-lyke to postes and pillers that upright stonden, and greet might han to bere many charges; and if they croke on any syde, litel thing maketh hem overthrowe.' 'this is a good ensample,' quod i, 'to pillers and postes that i have seen overthrowed my-selfe; and hadden they ben underput with any helpes, they had not so lightly falle.' 'than holdest thou him mighty that hath many men armed and many servauntes; and ever he is adrad of hem in his herte; and, for he gasteth hem, somtyme he mot the more fere have. comenly, he that other agasteth, other in him ayenward werchen the same; and thus warnisshed mot he be, and of warnisshe the hour drede. litel is that might and right leude, who-so taketh hede.' 'than semeth it,' quod i, 'that suche famulers aboute kinges and grete lordes shulde greet might have. although a sypher in augrim have no might in significacion of it-selve, yet he yeveth power in significacion to other; and these clepe i the helpes to a poste to kepe him from falling.' 'certes,' quod she, 'thilke skilles ben leude. why? but-if the shorers be wel grounded, the helpes shulden slyden and suffre the charge to falle; her might litel avayleth.' 'and so me thinketh,' quod i, 'that a poste alone, stonding upright upon a basse, may lenger in greet burthen endure than croken pilers for al their helpes, and her ground be not siker.' 'that is sothe,' quod she; 'for as, [if] the blynde in bering of the lame ginne stomble, bothe shulde falle, right so suche pillers, so envyroned with helpes, in falling of the grounde fayleth +altogider. how ofte than suche famulers, in their moste pryde of prosperitè, ben sodainly overthrowen! thou hast knowe many in a moment so ferre overthrowe, that cover might they never. whan the hevinesse of suche fayling cometh by case of fortune, they mowe it not eschue; and might and power, if ther were any, shulde of strength such thinges voyde and weyve; and so it is not. lo, than! whiche thing is this power, that, tho men han it, they ben agast; and in no tyme of ful having be they siker! and if they wold weyve drede, as they mow not, litel is in worthines. fye therfore on so naughty thing, any knot to cause! lo! in adversitè, thilk ben his foes that glosed and semed frendes in welth; thus arn his familiers his foes and his enemyes; and nothing is werse, ne more mighty for to anoy than is a familier enemy; and these thinges may they not weyve; so trewly their might is not worth a cresse. and over al thinge, he that may not withdrawe the brydel of his flesshly lustes and his wrecched complayntes (now think on thy-selfe) trewly he is not mighty; i can seen no way that lyth to the knotte. thilke people than, that setten their hertes upon suche mightes and powers, often ben begyled. pardè, he is not mighty that may do any thing, that another may doon him the selve, and that men have as greet power over him as he over other. a justice that demeth men ayenward hath ben often demed. buserus slew his gestes, and he was slayn of hercules his geste. hugest betraysshed many men, and of collo was he betrayed. he that with swerde smyteth, with swerde shal be smitten.' than gan i to studyen a whyle on these thinges, and made a countenaunce with my hande in maner to ben huisht. 'now let seen,' quod she, 'me thinketh somwhat there is within thy soule, that troubleth thy understanding; saye on what it is.' quod i tho, 'me thinketh that, although a man by power have suche might over me, as i have over another, that disproveth no might in my person; but yet may i have power and might never-the-later.' 'see now,' quod she, 'thyne owne leudenesse. he is mighty that may without wrecchednesse; and he is unmighty that may it not withsitte; but than he, that might over thee, and he wol, putte on thee wrecchednesse, thou might it not withsitte. _ergo_, thou seest thy-selfe what foloweth! but now (quod she) woldest thou not skorne, and thou see a flye han power to don harm to an-other flye, and thilke have no might ne ayenturning him-selfe to defende?' 'yes, certes,' quod i. 'who is a frayler thing,' quod she, 'than the fleshly body of a man, over whiche have oftentyme flyes, and yet lasse thing than a flye, mokel might in grevaunce and anoying, withouten any withsittinge, for al thilke mannes mightes? and sithen thou seest thyne flesshly body in kyndely power fayle, how shulde than the accident of a thinge ben in more suretè of beinge than substancial? wherfore, thilke thinges that we clepe power is but accident to the flesshly body; and so they may not have that suretee in might, whiche wanteth in the substancial body. why there is no way to the knotte, [for him] that loketh aright after the hye way, as he shulde. ch. vii. . _i supply_ men, to maken hem. . parfyte. . one. . great. . disease. fal. howe. canste. . great. holden; _read_ helden. . wretchydnesse. howe wretched. . one. . greatest. . thynge. . nowe. great. . greatest. . wretchydnesse (_several times_); wretched (_several times_). . reason wote. . stretchen. . folke. . howe. . prickes. . parfyte. . propertie. . woste. - . done (_thrice_). - . wotte (_four times_). . a dradde. . leadeth. retche. . worthe. reason retcheth. . arne. great. . beare. . thynge. . sene. . fal. . adradde. . mote. feare. . ayenwarde. . mote. . great (_twice_). althoughe. . fal. . graet (_sic_). . grou_n_de. . _supply_ if. bearyng. . fal. . al togyther. howe. . haste. . enemye. . worthe. . maye. . wretched. nowe thynke. . sene. waye. lythe. . maye doone. . great. . ayenwarde. slewe. . slayne. . huyshte. . nowe. sene. . se nowe. . maye. wretchydnesse. . the. . put. the wretchydnesse. . nowe. . se. done harme. . anoyeng. . howe. . suretie. . waye. _supply_ for him. . waye. chapter viii. verily it is proved that richesse, dignitè, and power ben not trewe way to the knotte, but as rathe by suche thinges the knotte to be unbounde; wherfore on these thinges i rede no wight truste to gette any good knotte. but what shul we saye of renomè in the peoples mouthes? shulde that ben any cause? what supposest thou in thyn herte?' 'certes,' quod i, 'yes, i trowe; for your slye resons i dare not safely it saye.' 'than,' quod she, 'wol i preve that shrewes as rathe shul ben in the knotte as the good; and that were ayenst kynde.' 'fayn,' quod i, 'wolde i that here; me thinketh wonder how renomè shuld as wel knitte a shrewe as a good person; renomè in every degree hath avaunced; yet wist i never the contrarye. shulde than renomè accorde with a shrewe? it may not sinke in my stomake til i here more.' 'now,' quod she, 'have i not sayd alwayes, that shrewes shul not have the knotte?' 'what nedeth,' quod i, 'to reherse that any more? i wot wel every wight, by kyndely reson, shrewes in knitting wol eschewe.' 'than,' quod she, 'the good ought thilke knotte to have.' 'how els?' quod i. 'it were greet harm,' quod she, 'that the good were weyved and put out of espoire of the knotte, if he it desyred.' 'o,' quod i, 'alas! on suche thing to thinke, i wene that heven wepeth to see suche wronges here ben suffred on erthe; the good ought it to have, and no wight els.' 'the goodnesse,' quod she, 'of a person may not ben knowe outforth but by renomè of the knowers; wherfore he must be renomed of goodnesse, to come to the knot.' 'so must it be,' quod i, 'or els al lost that we carpen.' 'sothly,' quod she, 'that were greet harm, but-if a good man might have his desyres in service of thilke knot, and a shrewe to be +weyved, and they ben not knowen in general but by lacking and praysing, and in renomè; and so by the consequence it foloweth, a shrewe to ben praysed and knit; and a good to be forsake and unknit.' 'ah,' quod i tho, 'have ye, lady, ben here abouten; yet wolde i see, by grace of our argumentes better declared, how good and bad do acorden by lacking and praysing; me thinketh it ayenst kynde.' 'nay,' quod she, 'and that shalt thou see as yerne; these elementes han contrarious qualitees in kynde, by whiche they mowe not acorde no more than good and badde; and in [some] qualitees they acorde, so that contraries by qualitè acorden by qualitè. is not erthe drye; and water, that is next and bitwene th'erthe, is wete? drye and wete ben contrarie, and mowen not acorde, and yet this discordaunce is bounde to acorde by cloudes; for bothe elementes ben colde. right so the eyre, that is next the water, is wete; and eke it is hot. this eyre by his hete contrarieth water that is cold; but thilke contrarioustè is oned +by moysture; for bothe be they moyst. also the fyr, that is next the +eyre and it encloseth al about, is drye, wherthrough it contrarieth +eyre, that is wete; and in hete they acorde; for bothe they ben hote. thus by these acordaunces discordantes ben joyned, and in a maner of acordaunce they acorden by conneccion, that is, knitting togither; of that accorde cometh a maner of melodye that is right noble. right so good and bad arn contrarie in doinges, by lacking and praysing; good is bothe lacked and praysed of some; and badde is bothe lacked and praysed of some; wherfore their contrarioustee acorde bothe by lacking and praysing. than foloweth it, though good be never so mokel praysed, [it] oweth more to ben knit than the badde; or els bad, for the renomè that he hath, must be taken as wel as the good; and that oweth not.' 'no, forsothe,' quod i. 'wel,' quod she, 'than is renomè no way to the knot. lo, foole,' quod she, 'how clerkes wryten of suche glorie of renomè:--"o glorie, glorie, thou art non other thing to thousandes of folke but a greet sweller of eeres!" many oon hath had ful greet renomè by false opinion of variaunt people. and what is fouler than folk wrongfully to ben praysed, or by malice of the people giltlesse lacked? nedes shame foloweth therof to hem that with wrong prayseth, and also to the desertes praysed; and vilanye and reproof of him that disclaundreth. good child (quod she) what echeth suche renomè to the conscience of a wyse man, that loketh and mesureth his goodnesse, not by slevelesse wordes of the people, but by sothfastnesse of conscience? by god, nothing. and if it be fayr, a mans name be eched by moche folkes praysing, and fouler thing that mo folk not praysen? i sayd to thee a litel here-beforn, that no folk in straunge countreyes nought praysen; suche renomè may not comen to their eeres, bycause of unknowing and other obstacles, as i sayde: wherfore more folk not praysen, and that is right foul to him that renomè desyreth, to wete, lesse folk praisen than renomè enhaunce. i trowe, the thank of a people is naught worth in remembraunce to take; ne it procedeth of no wyse jugement; never is it stedfast pardurable. it is veyne and fleing; with winde wasteth and encreseth. trewly, suche glorie ought to be hated. if gentillesse be a cleer thing, renomè and glorie to enhaunce, as in reckening of thy linage, than is gentilesse of thy kinne; for-why it semeth that gentilesse of thy kinne is but praysing and renomè that come of thyne auncestres desertes: and if so be that praysing and renomè of their desertes make their clere gentillesse, than mote they nedes ben gentil for their gentil dedes, and not thou; for of thy-selfe cometh not such maner gentilesse, praysinge of thy desertes. than gentillesse of thyne auncesters, that forayne is to thee, maketh thee not gentil, but ungentil and reproved, and-if thou continuest not their gentilesse. and therfore a wyse man ones sayde: "better is it thy kinne to ben by thee gentyled, than thou to glorifye of thy kinnes gentilesse, and hast no desert therof thy-selfe." how passinge is the beautee of flesshly bodyes, more flittinge than movable floures of sommer! and if thyne eyen weren as good as the lynx, that may seen thorow many stone walles, bothe fayre and foule, in their entrayles, of no maner hewe shulde apere to thy sight; that were a foule sight. than is fayrnesse by feblesse of eyen, but of no kynde; wherfore thilke shulde be no way to the knot; whan thilke is went, the knotte wendeth after. lo, now, at al proves, none of al these thinges mowe parfitly ben in understanding, to ben way to the during blisse of the knotte. but now, to conclusion of these maters, herkeneth these wordes. very sommer is knowe from the winter: in shorter cours draweth the dayes of decembre than in the moneth of june; the springes of maye faden and +falowen in octobre. these thinges ben not unbounden from their olde kynde; they have not lost her werke of their propre estat. men, of voluntarious wil, withsitte that hevens governeth. other thinges suffren thinges paciently to werche; man, in what estat he be, yet wolde he ben chaunged. thus by queynt thinges blisse is desyred; and the fruit that cometh of these springes nis but anguis and bitter; al-though it be a whyle swete, it may not be with-holde; hastely they departe; thus al-day fayleth thinges that fooles wende. right thus hast thou fayled in thy first wening. he that thinketh to sayle, and drawe after the course of the sterre _de polo antartico_, shal he never come northward to the contrarye sterre of _polus articus_; of whiche thinges if thou take kepe, thy first out-waye-going "prison" and "exile" may be cleped. the ground falsed underneth, and so hast thou fayled. no wight, i wene, blameth him that stinteth in misgoing, and secheth redy way of his blisse. now me thinketh (quod she) that it suffyseth in my shewing; the wayes by dignetè, richesse, renomè, and power, if thou loke clerely, arn no wayes to the knotte.' ch. viii. . waye. . fayne. howe. . maye. . nowe. . wotte. . reason. . howe. . great harme. . se. . great harme. . veyned; _read_ weyued. . se. howe. . se. . qualyties. . _i supply_ some. . therthe. . hotte. . colde. co_n_trariousty. my; _read_ by. . fyre. . erthe; _read_ eyre (_twice_). . connection. . arne. . contraryoustie. . _i supply_ it. . waye. . howe. . arte none. thynge. . great. one. great. . folke. . reprofe. . chylde. . measureth. . fayre. . folke. . the. beforne. folke. . folke. foule. . folke. . thanke. . worthe. . encreaseth. . clear thynge. - . the (_thrice_). . haste. deserte. . howe. beautie. . maye sene thorowe. . fayrenesse. - . nowe (_twice_). . waye. . nowe. . folowen; _read_ falowen. . loste. . estate. . fruite. . maye. . al-daye. haste. . northwarde. . grounde. . nowe. . ways. chapter ix. 'every argument, lady,' quod i tho, 'that ye han maked in these fore-nempned maters, me thinketh hem in my ful witte conceyved; shal i no more, if god wil, in the contrarye be begyled. but fayn wolde i, and it were your wil, blisse of the knotte to me were declared. i might fele the better how my herte might assente, to pursue the ende in service, as he hath begonne.' 'o,' quod she, 'there is a melodye in heven, whiche clerkes clepen "armony"; but that is not in brekinge of voice, but it is a maner swete thing of kyndely werching, that causeth joye[s] out of nombre to recken, and that is joyned by reson and by wysdome in a quantitè of proporcion of knitting. god made al thing in reson and in witte of proporcion of melody, we mowe not suffyse to shewe. it is written by grete clerkes and wyse, that, in erthly thinges, lightly by studye and by travayle the knowinge may be getten; but of suche hevenly melody, mokel travayle wol bringe out in knowing right litel. swetenesse of this paradyse hath you ravisshed; it semeth ye slepten, rested from al other diseses; so kyndely is your herte therein y-grounded. blisse of two hertes, in ful love knitte, may not aright ben imagined; ever is their contemplacion, in ful of thoughty studye to plesaunce, mater in bringinge comfort everiche to other. and therfore, of erthly thinges, mokel mater lightly cometh in your lerning. knowledge of understonding, that is nigh after eye, but not so nigh the covetyse of knittinge in your hertes. more soverain desyr hath every wight in litel heringe of hevenly conninge than of mokel material purposes in erthe. right so it is in propertee of my servauntes, that they ben more affiched in steringe of litel thinge in his desyr than of mokel other mater lasse in his conscience. this blisse is a maner of sowne delicious in a queynte voice touched, and no dinne of notes; there is non impression of breking labour. i can it not otherwyse nempne, for wantinge of privy wordes, but paradyse terrestre ful of delicious melody, withouten travayle in sown, perpetual service in ful joye coveyted to endure. only kynde maketh hertes in understonding so to slepe, that otherwyse may it nat be nempned, ne in other maner names for lyking swetnesse can i nat it declare; al sugre and hony, al minstralsy and melody ben but soot and galle in comparison, by no maner proporcion to reken, in respect of this blisful joye. this armony, this melody, this perdurable joye may nat be in doinge but betwene hevens and elementes, or twey kyndly hertes ful knit in trouth of naturel understonding, withouten weninge and disceit; as hevens and planettes, whiche thinges continually, for kyndly accordaunces, foryeteth al contrarious mevinges, that in-to passive diseses may sowne; evermore it thirsteth after more werking. these thinges in proporcion be so wel joyned, that it undoth al thing whiche in-to badnesse by any way may be accompted.' 'certes,' quod i, 'this is a thing precious and noble. alas! that falsnesse ever, or wantrust shulde ever be maynteyned, this joye to voyde. alas! that ever any wrecche shulde, thorow wrath or envy, janglinge dare make, to shove this melody so farre a-backe, that openly dar it nat ben used; trewly, wrecches ben fulfilled with envy and wrathe, and no wight els. flebring and tales in suche wrecches dare appere openly in every wightes eere, with ful mouth so charged, [with] mokel malice moved many innocentes to shende; god wolde their soule therwith were strangled! lo! trouth in this blisse is hid, and over-al under covert him hydeth; he dar not come a-place, for waytinge of shrewes. commenly, badnesse goodnesse amaistreth; with my-selfe and my soule this joye wolde i bye, if the goodnesse were as moche as the nobley in melody.' 'o,' quod she, 'what goodnesse may be acompted more in this material worlde? truly, non; that shalt thou understonde. is nat every thing good that is contrariant and distroying yvel?' 'how els?' quod i. 'envy, wrathe, and falsnesse ben general,' quod she; 'and that wot every man being in his right mynde; the knotte, the whiche we have in this blisse, is contrariaunt and distroyeth such maner yvels. _ergo_, it is good. what hath caused any wight to don any good dede? fynd me any good, but-if this knotte be the cheef cause. nedes mot it be good, that causeth so many good dedes. every cause is more and worthier than thing caused; and in that mores possession al thinges lesse ben compted. as the king is more than his people, and hath in possession al his rëalme after, right so the knot is more than al other goodes; thou might recken al thinges lasse; and that to him longeth, oweth in-to his mores cause of worship and of wil +to turne; it is els rebel and out of his mores defending to voyde. right so of every goodnesse; in-to the knotte and in-to the cause of his worship [it] oweth to tourne. and trewly, every thing that hath being profitably is good, but nothing hath to ben more profitably than this knot; kinges it mayntayneth, and hem, their powers to mayntayne. it maketh misse to ben amended with good governaunce in doing. it closeth hertes so togider, that rancour is out-thresten. who that it lengest kepeth, lengest is glad[d]ed.' 'i trowe,' quod i, 'heretykes and misse-mening people hence-forward wol maintayne this knotte; for therthorough shul they ben maintayned, and utterly wol turne and leve their olde yvel understanding, and knitte this goodnesse, and profer so ferre in service, that name of servauntes might they have. their jangles shal cese; me thinketh hem lacketh mater now to alege.' 'certes,' quod love, 'if they, of good wil thus turned, as thou sayst, wolen trewly perfourme, yet shul they be abled party of this blisse to have; and they wol not, yet shul my servauntes the werre wel susteyne in myn helpe of maintenaunce to the ende. and they, for their good travayle, shullen in reward so ben meded, that endelesse joye body and soule +to-gider in this shullen abyden. there is ever accion of blisse withouten possible corrupcion; there is accion perpetuel in werke without travayle; there is everlasting passife, withouten any of labour; continuel plyte, without cesinge coveyted to endure. no tonge may telle, ne herte may thinke the leest point of this blisse.' 'god bring me thider!' quod i than. 'continueth wel,' quod she, 'to the ende, and thou might not fayle than; for though thou spede not here, yet shal the passion of thy martred lyfe ben written, and rad toforn the grete jupiter, that god is of routhe, an high in the holownesse of heven, there he sit in his trone; and ever thou shalt forward ben holden amonge al these hevins for a knight, that mightest with no penaunce ben discomfited. he is a very martyr that, livingly goinge, is gnawen to the bones.' 'certes,' quod i, 'these ben good wordes of comfort; a litel myne herte is rejoyced in a mery wyse.' 'ye,' quod she; 'and he that is in heven felith more joye, than whan he firste herde therof speke.' 'so it is,' quod i; 'but wist i the sothe, that after disese comfort wolde folowe with blisse, so as ye have often declared, i wolde wel suffre this passion with the better chere. but my thoughtful sorowe is endelesse, to thinke how i am cast out of a welfare; and yet dayneth not this yvel non herte, non hede, to meward throwe: which thinges wolde greetly me by wayes of comfort disporte, to weten in my-selfe a litel with other me[n] ben y-moved; and my sorowes peysen not in her balaunce the weyght of a peese. slinges of her daunger so hevily peysen, they drawe my causes so hye, that in her eyen they semen but light and right litel.' 'o! for,' quod she, 'heven with skyes that foule cloudes maken and darke +weders, with gret tempestes and huge, maketh the mery dayes with softe shyning sonnes. also the yere with-draweth floures and beautee of herbes and of erth; the same +yere maketh springes and jolitè in vere so to renovel with peinted coloures, that erthe semeth as gay as heven. sees that blasteth and with wawes throweth shippes, of whiche the living creatures for greet peril for hem dreden; right so, the same sees maketh smothe waters and golden sayling, and comforteth hem with noble haven that firste were so ferde. hast thou not (quod she) lerned in thy youth, that jupiter hath in his warderobe bothe garmentes of joye and of sorowe? what wost thou how soone he wol turne of the garment of care, and clothe thee in blisse? pardè, it is not ferre fro thee. lo, an olde proverbe aleged by many wyse:--"whan bale is greetest, than is bote a nye-bore." wherof wilt thou dismaye? hope wel and serve wel; and that shal thee save, with thy good bileve.' 'ye, ye,' quod i; 'yet see i not by reson how this blisse is coming; i wot it is contingent; it may falle on other.' 'o,' quod she, 'i have mokel to done to clere thyne understanding, and voyde these errours out of thy mynde. i wol prove it by reson, thy wo may not alway enduren. every thing kyndely (quod she) is governed and ruled by the hevenly bodyes, whiche haven ful werchinge here on erthe; and after course of these bodyes, al course of your doinges here ben governed and ruled by kynde. thou wost wel, by cours of planettes al your dayes proceden; and to everich of singuler houres be enterchaunged stondmele about, by submitted worching naturally to suffre; of whiche changes cometh these transitory tymes that maketh revolving of your yeres thus stondmele; every hath ful might of worchinge, til al seven han had her course about. of which worchinges and possession of houres the dayes of the weke have take her names, after denominacion in these seven planettes. lo, your sonday ginneth at the first hour after noon on the saturday, in whiche hour is than the sonne in ful might of worching; of whom sonday taketh his name. next him foloweth venus, and after mercurius, and than the moone; so than saturnus, after whom jovis; and than mars; and ayen than the sonne; and so forth +by .xxiiii. houres togider; in whiche hour ginning in the seconde day stant the moone, as maister for that tyme to rule; of whom monday taketh his name; and this course foloweth of al other dayes generally in doing. this course of nature of these bodyes chaunging stinten at a certain terme, limitted by their first kynde; and of hem al governementes in this elemented worlde proceden, as in springes, constellacions, engendrures, and al that folowen kynde and reson; wherfore [in] the course that foloweth, sorowe and joy kyndely moten entrechangen their tymes; so that alway oon wele, as alway oon wo, may not endure. thus seest thou appertly, thy sorowe in-to wele mot ben chaunged; wherfore in suche case to better syde evermore enclyne thou shuldest. trewly, next the ende of sorowe anon entreth joy; by maner of necessitè it wol ne may non other betyde; and so thy conti[n]gence is disproved; if thou holde this opinion any more, thy wit is right leude. wherfore, in ful conclusion of al this, thilke margaryte thou desyrest hath ben to thee dere in thy herte, and for her hast thou suffred many thoughtful diseses; herafter shal [she] be cause of mokel mirth and joye; and loke how glad canst thou ben, and cese al thy passed hevinesse with manifolde joyes. and than wol i as blythly here thee speken thy mirthes in joye, as i now have y-herd thy sorowes and thy complayntes. and if i mowe in aught thy joye encrese, by my trouthe, on my syde shal nat be leved for no maner traveyle, that i with al my mightes right blythly wol helpe, and ever ben redy you bothe to plese.' and than thanked i that lady with al goodly maner that i worthily coude; and trewly i was greetly rejoysed in myne herte of her fayre behestes; and profered me to be slawe, in al that she me wolde ordeyne, while my lyf lested. ch. ix. . fayne. . howe. . ioye; _read_ joyes. - . reason. . great. . diseases. hertes; _read_ herte. . comforte. - . nyghe (_twice_). . soueraine desyre. . propertie. . desyre. . none. . breakynge laboure. canne. . onely. . soote. . respecte. . diseases. . wretch. thorowe. . dare. - . wretches. . eare. _i supply_ with. . innocte_n_es; _misprint for_ innoce_n_tes. . dare. . distroyeng. . howe. . fynde. . chefe. mote. . thynge. . do; _read_ to, _as in_ l. . . _supply_ it. . meanynge. . forwarde. . leaue. . cease. nowe. . togyther. - . action (_twice_). . ceasynge. tel. . hert. . radde toforne. great. . sytte. forwarde. . comforte. . disease comforte. . howe. . none (_twice_). . mewarde. greatly. . comforte. me; _read_ men? . wethers; _read_ weders. . beautie. . yeres; _read_ yere. . great. . howe. . the. . greatest. . wylte. . the. . se. reason howe. . wote. fal. . reason. . denomination. . be; _for_ by. . stante. . certayne. . _supply_ in. . on (_for_ oon; _twice_). . mote. . contygence. . the. . diseases. . _supply_ she. howe. canste. . cease. . the. . ioy. nowe. yherde. . encrease. . leaued. . worthely. greatly. . hert. . lyfe. chapter x. 'me thinketh,' quod i, 'that ye have right wel declared, that way to the knot shuld not ben in none of these disprovinge thinges; and now, order of our purpos this asketh, that ye shulde me shewe if any way be +thider, and whiche thilke way shulde ben; so that openly may be seye the verry hye way in ful confusioun of these other thinges.' 'thou shalt,' quod she, 'understande that [of] one of three lyves (as i first sayd) every creature of mankynde is sprongen, and so forth procedeth. these lyves ben thorow names departed in three maner of kyndes, as bestialliche, manliche, and resonabliche; of whiche two ben used by flesshely body, and the thirde by his soule. "bestial" among resonables is forboden in every lawe and every secte, bothe in cristen and other; for every wight dispyseth hem that liveth by lustes and delytes, as him that is thral and bounden servaunt to thinges right foule; suche ben compted werse than men; he shal nat in their degree ben rekened, ne for suche one alowed. heritykes, sayn they, chosen lyf bestial, that voluptuously liven; so that (as i first sayde to thee) in manly and resonable livinges our mater was to declare; but [by] "manly" lyfe, in living after flesshe, or els flesshly wayes to chese, may nat blisse in this knotte be conquered, as by reson it is proved. wherfore by "resonable" lyfe he must nedes it have, sithe a way is to this knotte, but nat by the firste tway lyves; wherfore nedes mot it ben to the thirde; and for to live in flesshe, but nat after flessh, is more resonablich than manliche rekened by clerkes. therfore how this way cometh in, i wol it blythely declare. see now (quod she) that these bodily goodes of manliche livinges yelden +sorowfulle stoundes and smertande houres. who-so +wol remembre him to their endes, in their worchinges they ben thoughtful and sorie. right as a bee that hath had his hony, anon at his flight beginneth to stinge; so thilke bodily goodes at the laste mote awaye, and than stinge they at her goinge, wherthrough entreth and clene voydeth al blisse of this knot.' 'forsothe,' quod i, 'me thinketh i am wel served, in shewing of these wordes. although i hadde litel in respect among other grete and worthy, yet had i a fair parcel, as me thought, for the tyme, in forthering of my sustenaunce; whiche while it dured, i thought me havinge mokel hony to myne estat. i had richesse suffisauntly to weyve nede; i had dignitè to be reverenced in worship. power me thought that i had to kepe fro myne enemyes, and me semed to shyne in glorie of renomè as manhood asketh in mene; for no wight in myne administracion coude non yvels ne trechery by sothe cause on me putte. lady, your-selve weten wel, that of tho confederacies maked by my soverains i nas but a servaunt, and yet mokel mene folk wol fully ayenst reson thilke maters maynteyne, in whiche mayntenaunce [they] glorien them-selfe; and, as often ye haven sayd, therof ought nothing in yvel to be layd to me-wardes, sithen as repentaunt i am tourned, and no more i thinke, neither tho thinges ne none suche other to sustene, but utterly distroye, without medlinge maner, in al my mightes. how am i now cast out of al swetnesse of blisse, and mischevously [is] stongen my passed joy! soroufully muste i bewayle, and live as a wrecche. every of tho joyes is tourned in-to his contrary. for richesse, now have i povertè; for dignitè, now am i emprisoned; in stede of power, wrecchednesse i suffre; and for glorie of renomè, i am now dispysed and foulich hated. thus hath farn fortune, that sodaynly am i overthrowen, and out of al welth dispoyled. trewly, me thinketh this way in entree is right hard; god graunt me better grace er it be al passed; the other way, lady, me thought right swete.' 'now, certes,' quod love, 'me list for to chyde. what ayleth thy darke dulnesse? wol it nat in clerenesse ben sharped? have i nat by many resons to thee shewed, suche bodily goodes faylen to yeve blisse, their might so ferforth wol nat strecche? shame (quod she) it is to say, thou lyest in thy wordes. thou ne hast wist but right fewe that these bodily goodes had al atones; commenly they dwellen nat togider. he that plentè hath in riches, of his kinne is ashamed; another of linage right noble and wel knowe, but povert him handleth; he were lever unknowe. another hath these, but renomè of peoples praysing may he nat have; overal he is hated and defamed of thinges right foule. another is fair and semely, but dignitè him fayleth; and he that hath dignitè is croked or lame, or els misshapen and foully dispysed. thus partable these goodes dwellen commenly; in one houshold ben they but silde. lo! how wrecched is your truste on thing that wol nat accorde! me thinketh, thou clepest thilke plyte thou were in "selinesse of fortune"; and thou sayest, for that the selinesse is departed, thou art a wrecch. than foloweth this upon thy wordes; every soule resonable of man may nat dye; and if deth endeth selinesse and maketh wrecches, as nedes of fortune maketh it an ende. than soules, after deth of the body, in wrecchednesse shulde liven. but we knowe many that han geten the blisse of heven after their deth. how than may this lyf maken men blisful, that whan it passeth it yeveth no wrecchednesse, and many tymes blisse, if in this lyfe he con live as he shulde? and wolt thou acompt with fortune, that now at [t]he first she hath don thee tene and sorowe? if thou loke to the maner of al glad thinges and sorouful, thou mayst nat nay it, that yet, and namely now, thou standest in noble plyte in a good ginning, with good forth-going herafter. and if thou wene to be a wrecch, for such welth is passed, why than art thou nat wel fortunate, for badde thinges and anguis wrecchednesse ben passed? art thou now come first in-to the hostry of this lyfe, or els the both of this worlde? art thou now a sodayn gest in-to this wrecched exile? wenest there be any thing in this erthe stable? is nat thy first arest passed, that brought thee in mortal sorowe? ben these nat mortal thinges agon with ignorance of beestial wit, and hast receyved reson in knowing of vertue? what comfort is in thy herte, the knowinge sikerly in my service [to] be grounded? and wost thou nat wel, as i said, that deth maketh ende of al fortune? what than? standest thou in noble plyte, litel hede or recking to take, if thou let fortune passe dy[i]ng, or els that she fly whan her list, now by thy lyve? pardy, a man hath nothing so leef as his lyf; and for to holde that, he doth al his cure and diligent traveyle. than, say i, thou art blisful and fortunat sely, if thou knowe thy goodes that thou hast yet +beleved, whiche nothing may doute that they ne ben more worthy than thy lyf?' 'what is that?' quod i. 'good contemplacion,' quod she, 'of wel-doing in vertue in tyme coming, bothe in plesaunce of me and of thy margarit-peerle. hastely thyn hert in ful blisse with her shal be esed. therfore dismay thee nat; fortune, in hate grevously ayenst thy bodily person, ne yet to gret tempest hath she nat sent to thee, sithen the holding cables and ankers of thy lyfe holden by knitting so faste, that thou discomforte thee nought of tyme that is now, ne dispayre thee not of tyme to come, but yeven thee comfort in hope of weldoing, and of getting agayn the double of thy lesing, with encresing love of thy margarite-perle therto! for this, hiderto, thou hast had al her ful daunger; and so thou might amende al that is misse and al defautes that somtyme thou diddest; and that now, in al thy tyme, to that ilke margaryte in ful service of my lore thyne herte hath continued; wherfore she ought moche the rather enclyne fro her daungerous sete. these thinges ben yet knit by the holding anker in thy lyve, and holden mote they; to god i pray, al these thinges at ful ben perfourmed. for whyle this anker holdeth, i hope thou shalt safely escape; and [in a] whyle thy trewe-mening service aboute bringe, in dispyte of al false meners that thee of-newe haten; for [in] this trewe service thou art now entred.' 'certayn,' quod i, 'among thinges i asked a question, whiche was the way to the knot. trewly, lady, how-so it be i tempt you with questions and answers, in speking of my first service, i am now in ful purpos in the pricke of the herte, that thilke service was an enprisonment, and alway bad and naughty, in no maner to be desyred; ne that, in getting of the knot, may it nothing aveyle. a wyse gentil herte loketh after vertue, and none other bodily joyes alone. and bycause toforn this in tho wayes i was set, i wot wel my-selfe i have erred, and of the blisse fayled; and so out of my way hugely have i ronne.' 'certes,' quod she, 'that is sothe; and there thou hast miswent, eschewe the path from hens-forward, i rede. wonder i trewly why the mortal folk of this worlde seche these ways outforth; and it is preved in your-selfe. lo, how ye ben confounded with errour and folly! the knowing of very cause and way is goodnesse and vertue. is there any thing to thee more precious than thy-selfe? thou shalt have in thy power that thou woldest never lese, and that in no way may be taken fro thee; and thilke thing is that is cause of this knot. and if deth mowe it nat reve more than an erthly creature, thilke thing than abydeth with thy-selfe soule. and so, our conclusion to make, suche a knot, thus getten, abydeth with this thinge and with the soule, as long as they laste. a soule dyeth never; vertu and goodnesse evermore with the soule endureth; and this knot is parfit blisse. than this soule in this blisse endlesse shal enduren. thus shul hertes of a trewe knot ben esed: thus shul their soules ben plesed: thus perpetually in joye shul they singe.' 'in good trouth,' quod i, 'here is a good beginning; yeve us more of this way.' quod she, 'i said to thee nat longe sithen, that resonable lyf was oon of three thinges; and it was proved to the soule. ch. x. . nowe. purpose. . thyther. . maye be sey. . waye. . _i supply_ of. - . thre (_twice_). . thorowe. . christen. . sayne. . lyfe. . the. lyueng_es_. . _supply_ by. lyueng. . reason. . mote. . howe. waye. . se nowe. . lyuenges. soroufully; _read_ sorowfulle. . wele; _read_ wol. . hadde. . anone. . respecte amonge. . great. faire. . estate. . manhode. . meane. -tion. . meane folke. . reason. _i supply_ they. . sayde. . nothynge. layde. . howe. nowe caste. . _supply_ is. . wretche. . nowe (_thrice_). . wretchednesse. . nowe. . entre. harde. . ladye. . nowe. . reasons. the. . ferforthe. stretche. . faire. . fouly. . sylde. howe reetched (!). . arte a wretch. . dethe. wretches. . dethe. - . wretchednesse. . dethe. howe. . lyfe. . wolte. now. he; _read_ the. . done the. . nowe. . wretch. . wretchednesse. - . nowe (_twice_). . sodayne. . wretched. thynge. . the (_sic_). . reason. co_m_forte. . hert. _i supply_ to. . woste. . rcekyng. dyng (_sic_). . lefe. lyfe. . beloued; _read_ beleued. nothynge. . conte_m_plation. . eased. - . the (_five times_). . comforte. . agayne. encreasynge. . shalte. _supply_ in a. . meanyng. . meaners. the. _supply_ in. . arte nowe. . certayn _begins with a large capital_ c, _on fol._ , verso. amonge. . howe. . nowe. purpose. - . hert. . toforne. . sette. wote. . ron. . pathe. -forwarde. . folke. . howe. . thynge. the. . the. . dethe. . thynge. . last. . p_ar_fite. . eased. pleased. . the. lyfe. . one. thre. chapter xi. every soule of reson hath two thinges of stering lyf, oon in vertue, and another in the bodily workinge; and whan the soule is the maister over the body, than is a man maister of him-selfe. and a man, to be a maister over him-selfe, liveth in vertu and in goodnesse, and as reson of vertue techeth. so the soule and the body, worching vertue togider, liven resonable lyf, whiche clerkes clepen "felicitè in living"; and therein is the hye way to this knot. these olde philosophers, that hadden no knowing of divine grace, of kyndly reson alone, wenden that of pure nature, withouten any helpe of grace, me might have y-shoned th'other livinges. resonably have i lived; and for i thinke herafter, if god wol, and i have space, thilke grace after my leude knowing declare, i leve it as at this tyme. but, as i said, he that out-forth loketh after the wayes of this knot, [his] conning with whiche he shulde knowe the way in-forth, slepeth for the tyme. wherfore he that wol this way knowe, must leve the loking after false wayes out-forth, and open the eyen of his conscience, and unclose his herte. seest nat, he that hath trust in the bodily lyfe is so besy bodily woundes to anointe, in keping from smert (for al-out may they nat be heled), that of woundes in his true understanding he taketh no hede; the knowing evenforth slepeth so harde: but anon, as in knowing awake, than ginneth the prevy medicynes, for heling of his trewe intent, inwardes lightly +helen conscience, if it be wel handled. than must nedes these wayes come out of the soule by stering lyfe of the body; and els may no man come to parfit blisse of this knotte. and thus, by this waye, he shal come to the knotte, and to the parfit selinesse that he wende have had in bodily goodes outforth.' 'ye,' quod i, 'shal he have both knot, riches, power, dignitè, and renomè in this maner way?' 'ye,' quod she, 'that shal i shewe thee. is he nat riche that hath suffisaunce, and hath the power that no man may amaistrien? is nat greet dignitè to have worship and reverence? and hath he nat glorie of renomè, whos name perpetual is during, and out of nombre in comparacion?' 'these be thinges that men wenen to getten outforth,' quod i. 'ye,' quod she; 'they that loken after a thing that nought is therof, in al ne in partie, longe mowe they gapen after!' 'that is sothe,' quod i. 'therfore,' quod she, 'they that sechen gold in grene trees, and wene to gader precious stones among vynes, and layn her nettes in mountains to fisshe, and thinken to hunte in depe sees after hart and hynd, and sechen in erth thilke thinges that surmounteth heven, what may i of hem say, but folisshe ignoraunce misledeth wandring wrecches by uncouth wayes that shulden be forleten, and maketh hem blynde fro the right pathe of trewe way that shulde ben used? therfore, in general, errour in mankynde departeth thilke goodes by mis-seching, whiche he shulde have hole, and he sought by reson. thus goth he begyled of that he sought; in his hode men have blowe a jape.' 'now,' quod i, 'if a man be vertuous, and al in vertue liveth, how hath he al these thinges?' 'that shal i proven,' quod she. 'what power hath any man to lette another of living in vertue? for prisonment, or any other disese, [if] he take it paciently, discomfiteth he nat; the tyrant over his soule no power may have. than hath that man, so tourmented, suche power, that he nil be discomfit; ne overcome may he nat ben, sithen pacience in his soule overcometh, and +is nat overcomen. suche thing that may nat be a-maistred, he hath nede to nothing; for he hath suffisaunce y-now, to helpe him-selfe. and thilke thing that thus hath power and suffisance, and no tyrant may it reve, and hath dignitè to sette at nought al thinges, here it is a greet dignitè, that deth may a-maistry. wherfore thilke power [with] suffisaunce, so enclosed with dignitè, by al reson renomè must have. this is thilke riches with suffisaunce ye sholde loke after; this is thilke worshipful dignitè ye shulde coveyte; this is thilke power of might, in whiche ye shulde truste; this is the ilke renomè of glorie that endlesse endureth; and al nis but substaunce in vertuous lyving.' 'certes,' quod i, 'al this is sothe; and so i see wel that vertue with ful gripe encloseth al these thinges. wherfore in sothe i may saye, by my trouth, vertue of my margarite brought me first in-to your service, to have knitting with that jewel, nat sodain longinges ne folkes smale wordes, but only our conversacion togider; and than i, seinge th'entent of her trewe mening with florisshing vertue of pacience, that she used nothing in yvel, to quyte the wicked lesinges that false tonges ofte in her have laid, i have seye it my-selfe, goodly foryevenesse hath spronge out of her herte. unitè and accord, above al other thinges, she desyreth in a good meke maner; and suffereth many wicked tales. trewly, lady, to you it were a gret worship, that suche thinges by due chastisment were amended.' 'ye,' quod she, 'i have thee excused; al suche thinges as yet mowe nat be redressed; thy margarites vertue i commende wel the more, that paciently suche anoyes suffreth. david king was meke, and suffred mokel hate and many yvel speches; no despyt ne shame that his enemys him deden might nat move pacience out of his herte, but ever in one plyte mercy he used. wherfore god him-selfe took reward to the thinges; and theron suche punisshment let falle. trewly, by reson, it ought be ensample of drede to al maner peoples mirth. a man vengeable in wrath no governance in punisshment ought to have. plato had a cause his servant to +scourge, and yet cleped he his neibour to performe the doinge; him-selfe wolde nat, lest wrath had him a-maistred; and so might he have layd on to moche: evermore grounded vertue sheweth th'entent fro within. and trewly, i wot wel, for her goodnesse and vertue, thou hast desyred my service to her plesance wel the more; and thy-selfe therto fully hast profered.' 'good lady,' quod i, 'is vertue the hye way to this knot that long we have y-handled?' 'ye, forsoth,' quod she, 'and without vertue, goodly this knot may nat be goten.' 'ah! now i see,' quod i, 'how vertu in me fayleth; and i, as a seer tree, without burjoning or frute, alwaye welke; and so i stonde in dispeyre of this noble knot; for vertue in me hath no maner workinge. a! wyde-where aboute have i traveyled!' 'pees,' quod she, 'of thy first way; thy traveyle is in ydel; and, as touchinge the seconde way, i see wel thy meninge. thou woldest conclude me, if thou coudest, bycause i brought thee to service; and every of my servantes i helpe to come to this blisse, as i sayd here-beforn. and thou saydest thy-selfe, thou mightest nat be holpen as thou wenest, bycause that vertue in thee fayleth; and this blisse parfitly without vertue may nat be goten; thou wenest of these wordes contradiccion to folowe. pardè, at the hardest, i have no servant but he be vertuous in dede and thought. i brought thee in my service, yet art thou nat my servant; but i say, thou might so werche in vertue herafter, that than shalt thou be my servant, and as for my servant acompted. for habit maketh no monk; ne weringe of gilte spurres maketh no knight. never-the-later, in confort of thyne herte, yet wol i otherwyse answere.' 'certes, lady,' quod i tho, 'so ye muste nedes; or els i had nigh caught suche a +cardiacle for sorowe, i wot it wel, i shulde it never have recovered. and therfore now i praye [thee] to enforme me in this; or els i holde me without recovery. i may nat long endure til this lesson be lerned, and of this mischeef the remedy knowen.' 'now,' quod she, 'be nat wroth; for there is no man on-lyve that may come to a precious thing longe coveited, but he somtyme suffre teneful diseses: and wenest thy-selfe to ben unliche to al other? that may nat ben. and with the more sorowe that a thing is getten, the more he hath joye the ilke thing afterwardes to kepe; as it fareth by children in scole, that for lerninge arn beten, whan their lesson they foryetten. commenly, after a good disciplyning with a yerde, they kepe right wel doctrine of their scole.' ch. xi. . euery (_with small_ e). reason. lyfe. one. . lyfe. . lyueng. . reason. . thother lyuenges. . leaue. . _i supply_ his. . leaue. . anoynt. . healed. . healyng. . healeth; _read_ helen. . maye. p_ar_fite. . p_ar_fyte. . waye. . the. . great. . whose. . co_m_paration. . thynge. . golde. . amonge. layne. . hunt. . hynde. . wretches. . mysse. . reason. . nowe. . howe. . let. lyueng. . _i supply_ if. . maye. . as; _read_ is. . ynowe. . great. . _i supply_ with. . coueyt. . lyueng. . se. . onely. co_n_versation. . thentent. . nothynge. . leasynges. layde. . sey. . hert. accorde. . trewly (_with large capital_ t). . the. . dispite. . werfore. . toke rewarde. . fal. reason. . scoure (!); _read_ scourge. . layde. . thentent. wotte. . haste. . waye. . nowe i se. howe. . tre. . peace. . se. meanyng. . the. . one. . beforne. . wenyst. . the. maye. . co_n_tradiction. . the. arte. . habyte. monke. wearynge. . conforte. . nyghe. cordiacle; _read_ cardiacle. wotte. . nowe. _i supply_ thee. . recouerye. . mischefe. . nowe. wrothe. . maye. . diseases. wenyst. . maye. . thynge. . schole. arne. . beaten. . schole. chapter xii. right with these wordes, on this lady i threw up myne eyen, to see her countenaunce and her chere; and she, aperceyving this fantasye in myne herte, gan her semblaunt goodly on me caste, and sayde in this wyse. 'it is wel knowe, bothe to reson and experience in doinge, every active worcheth on his passive; and whan they ben togider, "active" and "passive" ben y-cleped by these philosophers. if fyr be in place chafinge thing able to be chafed or hete[d], and thilke thinges ben set in suche a distaunce that the oon may werche, the other shal suffre. thilke margarite thou desyrest is ful of vertue, and able to be active in goodnesse: but every herbe sheweth his vertue outforth from within. the sonne yeveth light, that thinges may be seye. every fyr heteth thilke thing that it +neigheth, and it be able to be hete[d]. vertue of this margarite outforth +wercheth; and nothing is more able to suffre worching, or worke cacche of the actife, but passife of the same actife; and no passife, to vertues of this margaryte, but thee, in al my donet can i fynde! so that her vertue muste nedes on thee werche; in what place ever thou be, within distaunce of her worthinesse, as her very passife thou art closed. but vertue may thee nothing profyte, but thy desyr be perfourmed, and al thy sorowes cesed. _ergo_, through werchinge of her vertue thou shalt esely ben holpen, and driven out of al care, and welcome to this longe by thee desyred!' 'lady,' quod i, 'this is a good lesson in ginning of my joye; but wete ye wel forsothe, though i suppose she have moche vertue, i wolde my spousaile were proved, and than may i live out of doute, and rejoice me greetly, in thinking of tho vertues so shewed.' 'i herde thee saye,' quod she, 'at my beginning, whan i receyved thee firste for to serve, that thy jewel, thilke margaryte thou desyrest, was closed in a muskle with a blewe shel.' 'ye, forsothe,' quod i; 'so i sayd; and so it is.' 'wel,' quod she, 'every-thing kyndly sheweth it-selfe; this jewel, closed in a blewe shel, [by] excellence of coloures sheweth vertue from within; and so every wight shulde rather loke to the propre vertue of thinges than to his forayne goodes. if a thing be engendred of good mater, comenly and for the more part, it foloweth, after the congelement, vertue of the first mater (and it be not corrupt with vyces) to procede with encrees of good vertues; eke right so it fareth of badde. trewly, greet excellence in vertue of linage, for the more part, discendeth by kynde to the succession in vertues to folowe. wherfore i saye, the +colour of every margarit sheweth from within the fynesse in vertue. kyndely heven, whan mery +weder is a-lofte, apereth in mannes eye of coloure in blewe, stedfastnesse in pees betokening within and without. margaryte is engendred by hevenly dewe, and sheweth in it-selfe, by fynenesse of colour, whether the engendrure were maked on morowe or on eve; thus sayth kynde of this perle. this precious margaryte that thou servest, sheweth it-selfe discended, by nobley of vertue, from this hevenlich dewe, norisshed and congeled in mekenesse, that +moder is of al vertues; and, by werkes that men seen withouten, the significacion of the coloures ben shewed, mercy and pitee in the herte, with pees to al other; and al this is y-closed in a muskle, who-so redily these vertues loken. al thing that hath soule is reduced in-to good by mene thinges, as thus: in-to god man is reduced by soules resonable; and so forth beestes, or bodyes that mowe not moven, after place ben reduced in-to manne by beestes +mene that moven from place to place. so that thilke bodyes that han felinge soules, and move not from places, holden the lowest degree of soulinge thinges in felinge; and suche ben reduced in-to man by menes. so it foloweth, the muskle, as +moder of al vertues, halt the place of mekenesse, to his lowest degree discendeth downe of heven, and there, by a maner of virgine engendrure, arn these margarytes engendred, and afterward congeled. made not mekenesse so lowe the hye heven, to enclose and cacche out therof so noble a dewe, that after congelement, a margaryte, with endelesse vertue and everlasting joy, was with ful vessel of grace yeven to every creature, that goodly wolde it receyve?' 'certes,' quod i, 'these thinges ben right noble; i have er this herd these same sawes.' 'than,' quod she, 'thou wost wel these thinges ben sothe?' 'ye, forsothe,' quod i, 'at the ful.' 'now,' quod she, 'that this margaryte is ful of vertue, it is wel proved; wherfore som grace, som mercy, among other vertues, i wot right wel, on thee shal discende?' 'ye,' quod i; 'yet wolde i have better declared, vertues in this margarite kyndely to ben grounded.' 'that shal i shew thee,' quod she, 'and thou woldest it lerne.' 'lerne?' quod i, 'what nedeth suche wordes? wete ye nat wel, lady, your-selfe, that al my cure, al my diligence, and al my might, have turned by your counsayle, in plesaunce of that perle? al my thought and al my studye, with your helpe, desyreth, in worshippe [of] thilke jewel, to encrese al my travayle and al my besinesse in your service, this margaryte to gladde in some halve. me were lever her honour, her plesaunce, and her good chere thorow me for to be mayntayned and kept, and i of suche thinge in her lykinge to be cause, than al the welthe of bodily goodes ye coude recken. and wolde never god but i putte my-selfe in greet jeopardy of al that i +welde, (that is now no more but my lyf alone), rather than i shulde suffre thilke jewel in any pointe ben blemisshed; as ferre as i may suffre, and with my mightes strecche.' 'suche thing,' quod she, 'may mokel further thy grace, and thee in my service avaunce. but now (quod love) wilt thou graunte me thilke margaryte to ben good?' 'o! good +god,' quod i, 'why tempte ye me and tene with suche maner speche? i wolde graunt that, though i shulde anon dye; and, by my trouthe, fighte in the quarel, if any wight wolde countreplede.' 'it is so moche the lighter,' quod love, 'to prove our entent.' 'ye,' quod i; 'but yet wolde i here how ye wolde prove that she were good by resonable skil, that it mowe not ben denyed. for although i knowe, and so doth many other, manifold goodnesse and vertue in this margaryte ben printed, yet some men there ben that no goodnesse speken; and, wher-ever your wordes ben herd and your resons ben shewed, suche yvel spekers, lady, by auctoritè of your excellence, shullen be stopped and ashamed! and more, they that han non aquayntaunce in her persone, yet mowe they knowe her vertues, and ben the more enfourmed in what wyse they mowe sette their hertes, whan hem liste in-to your service any entree make. for trewly al this to beginne, i wot wel my-selfe that thilke jewel is so precious perle, as a womanly woman in her kynde; in whom of goodnesse, of vertue, and also of answeringe shappe of limmes, and fetures so wel in al pointes acording, nothing fayleth. i leve that kynde her made with greet studye; for kynde in her person nothing hath foryet[en], and that is wel sene. in every good wightes herte she hath grace of commending and of vertuous praysing. alas! that ever kynde made her deedly! save only in that, i wot wel, that nature, in fourminge of her, in no-thinge hath erred.' ch. xii. . threwe. . se. . reason. . ycleaped. . fyre. thynge. hete; _read_ heted. . sette. one. . outforthe. . sey. fyre. . neighed; _read_ neigheth. hete; _read_ heted. . wrethe (!); _read_ wercheth. nothynge. . catche. - . the (_twice_). . arte. the. . desyre. ceased. . shalte easely. . the. . thoughe. . maye. . greatly. . the say. . the. . _supply_ by. . parte. . encrease. . great. . parte. . colours; _read_ colour. . wether; _read_ weder. . peace. . coloure. , . mother; _read_ moder. . sene. signification. . pytie. . meane. . forthe. . meue; _misprint for_ mene. mouyn. . meanes. . halte. . arne. . afterwarde. . catche. . herde. . woste. . nowe. . some (_twice_). amonge. . wotte. , . the (_twice_). . _i supply_ of. encrease. . leauer. pleasaunce. . thorowe. kepte. . put. . great ieoperdye. wolde; _read_ welde. nowe. lyfe. . stretche. . maye. . the. nowe. wylte. . good good; _read_ good god. . thoughe. anone. . fyght. . howe. . reasonable. . dothe. . herde. reasons. . none. . entre. wote. . whome. . nothynge. great. . foryet. . onely. chapter xiii. 'certes,' quod love, 'thou hast wel begonne; and i aske thee this question: is not, in general, every-thing good?' 'i not,' quod i. 'no?' quod she; '+saw not god everything that he made, and weren right good?' 'than is wonder,' quod i, 'how yvel thinges comen a-place, sithen that al thinges weren right good.' 'thus,' quod she, 'i wol declare. everiche qualitè and every accion, and every thing that hath any maner of beinge, it is of god; and god it made, of whom is al goodnesse and al being. of him is no badnesse. badde to be, is naught; good to be, is somwhat; and therfore good and being is oon in understanding.' 'how may this be?' quod i. 'for often han shrewes me assailed, and mokel badnesse therin have i founden; and so me semeth bad to be somwhat in kynde.' 'thou shalt,' quod she, 'understande that suche maner badnesse, whiche is used to purifye wrong-doers, is somwhat; and god it made, and being [it] hath; and that is good. other badnesse no being hath utterly; it is in the negative of somwhat, and that is naught and nothing being. the parties essential of being arn sayd in double wyse, as that it is; and these parties ben founde in every creature. for al thing, a this halfe the first being, is being through participacion, taking partie of being; so that [in] every creature is difference bitwene being of him through whom it is, and his own being. right as every good is a maner of being, so is it good thorow being; for it is naught other to be. and every thing, though it be good, is not of him-selfe good; but it is good by that it is ordinable to the greet goodnesse. this dualitè, after clerkes +determinison, is founden in every creature, be it never so single of onhed.' 'ye,' quod i; 'but there-as it is y-sayd that god +saw every-thing of his making, and [they] were right good (as your-selfe sayd to me not longe tyme sithen), i aske whether every creature is y-sayd "good" through goodnesse unfourmed eyther els fourmed; and afterward, if it be accept utterly good?' 'i shal say thee,' quod she. 'these grete passed clerkes han devyded good in-to good being alone, and that is nothing but +god, for nothing is good in that wyse but god: also, in good by participacion, and that is y-cleped "good" for far fet and representative of +godly goodnesse. and after this maner manyfold good is sayd, that is to saye, good in kynde, and good in gendre, and good of grace, and good of joy. of good in kynde austen sayth, "al that ben, ben good." but peraunter thou woldest wete, whether of hem-selfe it be good, or els of anothers goodnesse: for naturel goodnesse of every substaunce is nothing els than his substancial being, which is y-cleped "goodnesse" after comparison that he hath to his first goodnesse, so as it is inductatife by menes in-to the first goodnesse. boece sheweth this thing at the ful, that this name "good" is, in general, name in kynde, as it is comparisoned generally to his principal ende, which is god, knotte of al goodnesse. every creature cryeth "god us made"; and so they han ful apeted to thilke god by affeccion such as to hem longeth; and in this wyse al thinges ben good of the gret god, which is good alone.' 'this wonder thing,' quod i, 'how ye have by many resons proved my first way to be errour and misgoing, and cause[d] of badnesse and feble meninge in the grounde ye aleged to be roted. whence is it that suche badnesse hath springes, sithen al thinges thus in general ben good, and badnesse hath no being, as ye have declared? i wene, if al things ben good, i might than with the first way in that good have ended, and so by goodnesse have comen to blisse in your service desyred.' 'al thing,' quod she, 'is good by being in participacion out of the firste goodnesse, whiche goodnesse is corrupt by badnesse and badde-mening maners. god hath [ordeyned] in good thinges, that they ben good by being, and not in yvel; for there is absence of rightful love. for badnesse is nothing but only yvel wil of the user, and through giltes of the doer; wherfore, at the ginninge of the worlde, every thing by him-selfe was good; and in universal they weren right good. an eye or a hand is fayrer and betterer in a body set, in his kyndely place, than from the body dissevered. every thing in his kyndly place, being kyndly, good doth werche; and, out of that place voyded, it dissolveth and is defouled him-selve. our noble god, in gliterande wyse, by armony this world ordeyned, as in purtreytures storied with colours medled, in whiche blacke and other derke colours commenden the golden and the asured paynture; every put in kyndely place, oon, besyde another, more for other glitereth. right so litel fayr maketh right fayr more glorious; and right so, of goodnesse, and of other thinges in vertue. wherfore other badde and not so good perles as this margaryte that we han of this matier, yeven by the ayre litel goodnesse and litel vertue, [maken] right mokel goodnesse and vertue in thy margaryte to ben proved, in shyning wyse to be founde and shewed. how shulde ever goodnesse of pees have ben knowe, but-if unpees somtyme reigne, and mokel yvel +wrathe? how shulde mercy ben proved, and no trespas were, by due justification, to be punisshed? therfore grace and goodnesse of a wight is founde; the sorouful hertes in good meninge to endure, ben comforted; unitè and acord bitwene hertes knit in joye to abyde. what? wenest thou i rejoyce or els accompte him among my servauntes that pleseth pallas in undoinge of mercurye, al-be-it that to pallas he be knit by tytle of lawe, not according to resonable conscience, and mercurie in doinge have grace to ben suffered; or els him that +weyveth the moone for fayrenesse of the eve-sterre? lo! otherwhyle by nightes, light of the moone greetly comforteth in derke thoughtes and blynde. understanding of love yeveth greet gladnesse. who-so list not byleve, whan a sothe tale is shewed, a dewe and a deblys his name is entred. wyse folk and worthy in gentillesse, bothe of vertue and of livinge, yeven ful credence in sothnesse of love with a good herte, there-as good evidence or experience in doinge sheweth not the contrarie. thus mightest thou have ful preef in thy margarytes goodnesse, by commendement of other jewels badnesse and yvelnesse in doing. stoundemele diseses yeveth several houres in joye.' 'now, by my trouthe,' quod i, 'this is wel declared, that my margaryte is good; for sithen other ben good, and she passeth manye other in goodnesse and vertue; wherthrough, by maner necessarie, she muste be good. and goodnesse of this margaryte is nothing els but vertue; wherfore she is vertuous; and if there fayled any vertue in any syde, there were lacke of vertue. badde nothing els is, ne may be, but lacke and want of good and goodnesse; and so shulde she have that same lacke, that is to saye, badde; and that may not be. for she is good; and that is good, me thinketh, al good; and so, by consequence, me semeth, vertuous, and no lacke of vertue to have. but the sonne is not knowe but he shyne; ne vertuous herbes, but they have her kynde werchinge; ne vertue, but it strecche in goodnesse or profyt to another, is no vertue. than, by al wayes of reson, sithen mercy and pitee ben moste commended among other vertues, and they might never ben shewed, [unto] refresshement of helpe and of comfort, but now at my moste nede; and that is the kynde werkinge of these vertues; trewly, i wene, i shal not varye from these helpes. fyr, and-if he yeve non hete, for fyre is not demed. the sonne, but he shyne, for sonne is not accompted. water, but it wete, the name shal ben chaunged. vertue, but it werche, of goodnesse doth it fayle; and in-to his contrarie the name shal ben reversed. and these ben impossible; wherfore the contradictorie, that is necessarye, nedes muste i leve.' 'certes,' quod she, 'in thy person and out of thy mouthe these wordes lyen wel to ben said, and in thyne understanding to be leved, as in entent of this margaryte alone. and here now my speche in conclusion of these wordes. ch. xiii. . haste. , . thynge. . saue; _read_ saw. . werne. . howe. . action. . one. . howe. . wronge. . _i supply_ it. . arne. . _i supply_ in. and of; _i omit_ and. . thorowe. . great. determission (!); _read_ determinison. . ysayde. saue; _read_ saw. . _i supply_ they. . ysayde. . afterwarde. accepte. . the. great. . good; _read_ god. . farre fette. . goodly; _read_ godly. manyfolde. . saythe. . ycleaped. . meanes. . affection. . howe. reasons. . waye. cause; _read_ caused. . baddesse (!). . corrupte. . meanynge. _i supply_ ordeyned. . nothynge. onely. . werne. hande. . sette. disceuered. . dothe. . worlde. . putte. one. . lytle fayre. . fayre. . _supply_ maken. . howe. peace. . vnpeace. wrothe; _read_ wrathe. . howe. trespeace (!). . meanynge. . acorde. knytte. . amonge. . pleaseth. . knytte. . reasonable. . weneth; _read_ weyveth. . greatly. . great. lyste. . adewe. . folke. . hert. . prefe. . diseases. . nowe. . wherthroughe. . no thynge. . wante. . maye. . stretche. profyte. . reason. pytie. . amonge. . _supply_ unto. comforte. nowe. . fyre. . none heate. . dothe. . nowe. chapter xiv. in these thinges,' quod she, 'that me list now to shewe openly, shal be founde the mater of thy sicknesse, and what shal ben the medicyn that may be thy sorowes lisse and comfort, as wel thee as al other that amisse have erred and out of the way walked, so that any drope of good wil in amendement [may] ben dwelled in their hertes. proverbes of salomon openly techeth, how somtyme an innocent walkid by the way in blyndnesse of a derke night; whom mette a woman (if it be leefly to saye) as a strumpet arayed, redily purveyed in turninge of thoughtes with veyne janglinges, and of rest inpacient, by dissimulacion of my termes, saying in this wyse: "com, and be we dronken of our swete pappes; use we coveitous collinges." and thus drawen was this innocent, as an oxe to the larder.' 'lady,' quod i, 'to me this is a queynte thing to understande; i praye you, of this parable declare me the entent.' 'this innocent,' quod she, 'is a scoler lerninge of my lore, in seching of my blisse, in whiche thinge the day of his thought turning enclyneth in-to eve; and the sonne, of very light faylinge, maketh derke night in his conninge. thus in derknesse of many doutes he walketh, and for blyndenesse of understandinge, he ne wot in what waye he is in; forsothe, suche oon may lightly ben begyled. to whom cam love fayned, not clothed of my livery, but [of] unlefful lusty habit, with softe speche and mery; and with fayre honyed wordes heretykes and mis-meninge people skleren and wimplen their errours. austen witnesseth of an heretyk, that in his first beginninge he was a man right expert in resons and swete in his wordes; and the werkes miscorden. thus fareth fayned love in her firste werchinges. thou knowest these thinges for trewe; thou hast hem proved by experience somtyme, in doing to thyne owne person; in whiche thing thou hast founde mater of mokel disese. was not fayned love redily purveyed, thy wittes to cacche and tourne thy good thoughtes? trewly, she hath wounded the conscience of many with florisshinge of mokel jangling wordes; and good worthe thanked i it for no glose. i am glad of my prudence thou hast so manly her +weyved. to me art thou moche holden, that in thy kynde course of good mening i returne thy mynde. i trowe, ne had i shewed thee thy margaryte, thou haddest never returned. of first in good parfit joye was ever fayned love impacient, as the water of siloë, whiche evermore floweth with stilnesse and privy noyse til it come nighe the brinke, and than ginneth it so out of mesure to bolne, with novelleries of chaunging stormes, that in course of every renning it is in pointe to spille al his circuit of +bankes. thus fayned love prively, at the fullest of his flowinge, [ginneth] newe stormes [of] debat to arayse. and al-be-it that mercurius [servants] often with hole understandinge knowen suche perillous maters, yet veneriens so lusty ben and so leude in their wittes, that in suche thinges right litel or naught don they fele; and wryten and cryen to their felawes: "here is blisse, here is joye"; and thus in-to one same errour mokel folk they drawen. "come," they sayen, "and be we dronken of our pappes"; that ben fallas and lying glose, of whiche mowe they not souke milke of helthe, but deedly venim and poyson, corrupcion of sorowe. milke of fallas is venim of disceyt; milke of lying glose is venim of corrupcion. lo! what thing cometh out of these pappes! "use we coveited collinges"; desyre we and meddle we false wordes with sote, and sote with false! trewly, this is the sorinesse of fayned love; nedes, of these surfettes sicknesse muste folowe. thus, as an oxe, to thy langoring deth were thou drawen; the sote of the smoke hath thee al defased. ever the deper thou somtyme wadest, the soner thou it founde; if it had thee killed, it had be litel wonder. but on that other syde, my trewe servaunt[s] not faynen ne disceyve conne; sothly, their doinge is open; my foundement endureth, be the burthen never so greet; ever in one it lasteth. it yeveth lyf and blisful goodnesse in the laste endes, though the ginninges ben sharpe. thus of two contraries, contrarye ben the effectes. and so thilke margaryte thou servest shal seen thee, by her service out of perillous tribulacion delivered, bycause of her service in-to newe disese fallen, by hope of amendement in the laste ende, with joye to be gladded. wherfore, of kynde pure, her mercy with grace of good helpe shal she graunte; and els i shal her so strayne, that with pitè shal she ben amaystred. remembre in thyne herte how horribly somtyme to thyne margaryte thou trespasest, and in a grete wyse ayenst her thou forfeytest! clepe ayen thy mynde, and know thyne owne giltes. what goodnesse, what bountee, with mokel folowing pitè founde thou in that tyme? were thou not goodly accepted in-to grace? by my pluckinge was she to foryevenesse enclyned. and after, i her styred to drawe thee to house; and yet wendest thou utterly for ever have ben refused. but wel thou wost, sithen that i in suche sharpe disese might so greetly avayle, what thinkest in thy wit? how fer may my wit strecche? and thou lache not on thy syde, i wol make the knotte. certes, in thy good bering i wol acorde with the psauter: "i have founde david in my service true, and with holy oyle of pees and of rest, longe by him desyred, utterly he shal be anoynted." truste wel to me, and i wol thee not fayle. the +leving of the first way with good herte of continuance that i see in thee grounded, this purpose to parfourme, draweth me by maner of constrayning, that nedes muste i ben thyne helper. although mirthe a whyle be taried, it shal come at suche seson, that thy thought shal ben joyed. and wolde never god, sithen thyne herte to my resons arn assented, and openly hast confessed thyne amisse-going, and now cryest after mercy, but-if mercy folowed; thy blisse shal ben redy, y-wis; thou ne wost how sone. now be a good child, i rede. the kynde of vertues, in thy margaryte rehersed, by strength of me in thy person shul werche. comfort thee in this; for thou mayst not miscary.' and these wordes sayd, she streyght her on length, and rested a whyle. ¶ thus endeth the seconde book, and here after foloweth the thirde book. ch. xiv. . nowe. . the. . _supply_ may. . teacheth. howe. . lefely. . sayeng. come. . thynge. . scholer. . daye. . wote. one. . whome came. . _supply_ of. unleful lustye habyte. . misse-. . heretyke. experte. . resones. . haste. . catche. . gladde. . veyned; _read_ weyved. arte. . meanyng. . the. . parfyte. . measure. . spyl. . cankes (!); _read_ bankes. . _i supply_ ginneth _and_ of. debate. . _i supply_ servants. . sayne. - . lyeng. . disceyte. . thynge. . must. . the. . the. . seruaunt. . great. lyfe. . sene the. , . disease. . graunt. . howe. . great. . knowe. . bountie. . the. . greatly. . howe ferre maye my wytte stretche. . peace. . the. . leanyng (!). . se. the. . reasones arne. haste. . nowe. . chylde. . comforte the. . sayde. colophon. booke. boke. book iii. chapter i. of nombre, sayn these clerkes, that it is naturel somme of discrete thinges, as in tellinge oon, two, three, and so forth; but among al nombres, three is determined for moste certayn. wherfore in nombre certayn this werk of my besy leudenesse i thinke to ende and parfourme. ensample by this worlde, in three tymes is devyded; of whiche the first is cleped +deviacion, that is to say, going out of trewe way; and al that tho dyeden, in helle were they punisshed for a man[ne]s sinne, til grace and mercy fette hem thence, and there ended the firste tyme. the seconde tyme lasteth from the comming of merciable grace until the ende of transitorie tyme, in whiche is shewed the true way in fordoinge of the badde; and that is y-cleped tyme of grace. and that thing is not yeven by desert of yeldinge oon benefyt for another, but only through goodnesse of the yever of grace in thilke tyme. who-so can wel understande is shapen to be saved in souled blisse. the thirde tyme shal ginne whan transitorie thinges of worldes han mad their ende; and that shal ben in joye, glorie, and rest, both body and soule, that wel han deserved in the tyme of grace. and thus in that heven +togider shul they dwelle perpetuelly, without any imaginatyfe yvel in any halve. these tymes are figured by tho three dayes that our god was closed in erthe; and in the thirde aroos, shewing our resurreccion to joye and blisse of tho that it deserven, by his merciable grace. so this leude book, in three maters, accordaunt to tho tymes, lightly by a good inseër may ben understonde; as in the firste, errour of misse-goinge is shewed, with sorowful pyne punisshed, +that cryed after mercy. in the seconde, is grace in good waye proved, whiche is faylinge without desert, thilke first misse amendinge, in correccion of tho erroures, and even way to bringe, with comfort of welfare in-to amendement wexinge. and in the thirde, joye and blisse graunted to him that wel can deserve it, and hath savour of understandinge in the tyme of grace. thus in joye, of my thirde boke, shal the mater be til it ende. but special cause i have in my herte to make this proces of a margarit-perle, that is so precious a gemme +whyt, clere and litel, of whiche stones or jewel[les] the tonges of us englissh people tourneth the right names, and clepeth hem 'margery-perles'; thus varieth our speche from many other langages. for trewly latin, frenche, and many mo other langages clepeth hem, margery-perles, [by] the name 'margarites,' or 'margarite-perles'; wherfore in that denominacion i wol me acorde to other mens tonges, in that name-cleping. these clerkes that treten of kyndes, and studien out the propertee there of thinges, sayn: the margarite is a litel whyt perle, throughout holowe and rounde and vertuous; and on the see-sydes, in the more britayne, in muskle-shelles, of the hevenly dewe, the best ben engendred; in whiche by experience ben founde three fayre vertues. oon is, it yeveth comfort to the feling spirites in bodily persones of reson. another is good; it is profitable helthe ayenst passions of sorie mens hertes. and the thirde, it is nedeful and noble in staunching of bloode, there els to moche wolde out renne. to whiche perle and vertues me list to lyken at this tyme philosophie, with her three speces, that is, natural, and moral, and resonable; of whiche thinges hereth what sayn these grete clerkes. philosophie is knowing of devynly and manly thinges joyned with studie of good living; and this stant in two thinges, that is, conninge and opinion. conninge is whan a thing by certayn reson is conceyved. but wrecches and fooles and leude men, many wil conceyve a thing and mayntayne it as for sothe, though reson be in the contrarye; wherfore conninge is a straunger. opinion is whyl a thing is in non-certayn, and hid from mens very knowleging, and by no parfit reson fully declared, as thus: if the sonne be so mokel as men wenen, or els if it be more than the erthe. for in sothnesse the certayn quantitè of that planet is unknowen to erthly dwellers; and yet by opinion of some men it is holden for more than midle-erth. the first spece of philosophie is naturel; whiche in kyndely thinges +treteth, and sheweth causes of heven, and strength of kyndely course; as by arsmetrike, geometry, musike, and by astronomye techeth wayes and cours of hevens, of planetes, and of sterres aboute heven and erthe, and other elementes. the seconde spece is moral, whiche, in order, of living maners techeth; and by reson proveth vertues of soule moste worthy in our living; whiche ben prudence, justice, temperaunce, and strength. prudence is goodly wisdom in knowing of thinges. strength voideth al adversitees aliche even. temperaunce distroyeth beestial living with esy bering. and justice rightfully jugeth; and juging departeth to every wight that is his owne. the thirde spece turneth in-to reson of understanding; al thinges to be sayd soth and discussed; and that in two thinges is devyded. oon is art, another is rethorike; in whiche two al lawes of mans reson ben grounded or els maintayned. and for this book is of love, and therafter bereth his name, and philosophie and lawe muste here-to acorden by their clergial discripcions, as: philosophie for love of wisdom is declared, lawe for mainteynaunce of pees is holden: and these with love must nedes acorden; therfore of hem in this place have i touched. ordre of homly thinges and honest maner of livinge in vertue, with rightful jugement in causes and profitable administracion in comminaltees of realmes and citees, by evenhed profitably to raigne, nat by singuler avauntage ne by privè envy, ne by soleyn purpos in covetise of worship or of goodes, ben disposed in open rule shewed, by love, philosophy, and lawe, and yet love, toforn al other. wherfore as sustern in unitè they accorden, and oon ende, that is, pees and rest, they causen norisshinge; and in the joye maynteynen to endure. now than, as i have declared: my book acordeth with discripcion of three thinges; and the margarit in vertue is lykened to philosophy, with her three speces. in whiche maters ever twey ben acordaunt with bodily reson, and the thirde with the soule. but in conclusion of my boke and of this margarite-perle in knittinge togider, lawe by three sondrye maners shal be lykened; that is to saye, lawe, right, and custome, whiche i wol declare. al that is lawe cometh of goddes ordinaunce, by kyndly worching; and thilke thinges ordayned by mannes wittes arn y-cleped right, which is ordayned by many maners and in constitucion written. but custome is a thing that is accepted for right or for lawe, there-as lawe and right faylen; and there is no difference, whether it come of scripture or of reson. wherfore it sheweth, that lawe is kyndly governaunce; right cometh out of mannes probable reson; and custome is of commen usage by length of tyme used; and custome nat writte is usage; and if it be writte, constitucion it is y-written and y-cleped. but lawe of kynde is commen to every nation, as conjunccion of man and woman in love, succession of children in heritance, restitucion of thing by strength taken or lent; and this lawe among al other halt the soveraynest gree in worship; whiche lawe began at the beginning of resonable creature; it varied yet never for no chaunging of tyme. cause, forsothe, in ordayning of lawe was to constrayne mens hardinesse in-to pees, and withdrawing his yvel wil, and turning malice in-to goodnesse; and that innocence sikerly, withouten teneful anoye, among shrewes safely might inhabite by proteccion of safe-conducte, so that the shrewes, harm for harme, by brydle of ferdnesse shulden restrayne. but forsothe, in kyndely lawe, nothing is commended but such as goddes wil hath confirmed, ne nothing denyed but contrarioustee of goddes wil in heven. eke than al lawes, or custome, or els constitucion by usage or wryting, that contraryen lawe of kynde, utterly ben repugnaunt and adversarie to our goddes wil of heven. trewly, lawe of kynde for goddes own lusty wil is verily to mayntayne; under whiche lawe (and unworthy) bothe professe and reguler arn obediencer and bounden to this margarite-perle as by knotte of loves statutes and stablisshment in kynde, whiche that goodly may not be withsetten. lo! under this bonde am i constrayned to abyde; and man, under living lawe ruled, by that lawe oweth, after desertes, to ben rewarded by payne or by mede, but-if mercy weyve the payne. so than +by part resonfully may be seye, that mercy bothe right and lawe passeth. th' entent of al these maters is the lest clere understanding, to weten, at th'ende of this thirde boke; ful knowing, thorow goddes grace, i thinke to make neverthelater. yet if these thinges han a good and a +sleigh inseër, whiche that can souke hony of the harde stone, oyle of the drye rocke, [he] may lightly fele nobley of mater in my leude imaginacion closed. but for my book shal be of joye (as i sayd), and i [am] so fer set fro thilke place fro whens gladnesse shulde come; my corde is to short to lete my boket ought cacche of that water; and fewe men be abouten my corde to eche, and many in ful purpos ben redy it shorter to make, and to enclose th' entrè, that my boket of joye nothing shulde cacche, but empty returne, my careful sorowes to encrese: (and if i dye for payne, that were gladnesse at their hertes): good lord, send me water in-to the cop of these mountayns, and i shal drinke therof, my thurstes to stanche, and sey, these be comfortable welles; in-to helth of goodnesse of my saviour am i holpen. and yet i saye more, the house of joye to me is nat opened. how dare my sorouful goost than in any mater of gladnesse thinken to trete? for ever sobbinges and complayntes be redy refrete in his meditacions, as werbles in manifolde stoundes comming about i not than. and therfore, what maner of joye coude [i] endyte? but yet at dore shal i knocke, if the key of david wolde the locke unshitte, and he bringe me in, whiche that childrens tonges both openeth and closeth; whos spirit where he +wol wercheth, departing goodly as him lyketh. now to goddes laude and reverence, profit of the reders, amendement of maners of the herers, encresing of worship among loves servauntes, releving of my herte in-to grace of my jewel, and fren[d]ship [in] plesance of this perle, i am stered in this making, and for nothing els; and if any good thing to mennes lyking in this scripture be founde, thanketh the maister of grace, whiche that of that good and al other is authour and principal doer. and if any thing be insufficient or els mislyking, +wyte that the leudnesse of myne unable conning: for body in disese anoyeth the understanding in soule. a disesely habitacion letteth the wittes [in] many thinges, and namely in sorowe. the custome never-the-later of love, +by long tyme of service, in termes i thinke to pursue, whiche ben lyvely to yeve understanding in other thinges. but now, to enforme thee of this margarites goodnesse, i may her not halfe preyse. wherfore, nat she for my boke, but this book for her, is worthy to be commended, tho my book be leude; right as thinges nat for places, but places for thinges, ought to be desyred and praysed. book iii: ch. i. . sayne. . one. thre. . amonge. thre. , . certayne. . werke. . thre. demacion; _read_ deuiacion. . hel. . thynge. deserte. one benefyte. . onely. . gyn. . made. . togyther. dwel. . thre. . arose. resurrection. . boke. thre. . maye. . erroure. . is (!); _read_ that. . deserte. . correction. waye. . comforte. . canne. . hert. processe. . peerle. with; _read_ whyt (_see_ l. ). . iewel; _read_ iewelles. . cleapeth. . _supply_ by. . treaten. . propertie. sayne. . whyte. . one. . comforte. reason. . ren. . thre. . sayn. great. . stante. . certayne. . wretches. . whyle. . -certayne. hydde. . parfyte reason. . certayne. . treten; _read_ treteth. . course. . lyueng. . wysdome. . lyueng. easy bearyng. . reason. . one. arte. . reason. . booke. beareth. . wisdome. . peace. . administration. . co_m_mynalties. cytes. . purpose. . susterne. one. . peace. . nowe. boke. discription. - . thre. . reason. . peerle. . thre. . co_n_stitution. . reason. . co_n_stitutyon. . co_n_iunction. . restitution. . halte. . reasonable. . peace. . amonge. . harme for harme. . ferdenesse. . nothynge. . contraryoustie. . law. . arne. . maye. . lyueng. . payn. . be; _read_ by. parte reasonfully. . sey. thentent. . thende. thorowe. . sleight; _read_ sleigh. . _i insert_ he. . ymagination. boke. . _supply_ am. ferre. . let. - . catch. . purpose. . thentre. . lorde sende. . sta_n_ch. . meditatio_n_s. . _i supply_ i. . vnshyt. bring. . whose spirite. wel; _read_ wol. . nowe. profite. . hert. . frenship. _i supply_ in. peerle. . with; _read_ wyte. . habitation. . _i supply_ in. . be; _read_ by. . nowe. enform the. - . boke (_thrice_). chapter ii. 'now,' quod love, 'trewly thy wordes i have wel understonde. certes, me thinketh hem right good; and me wondreth why thou so lightly passest in the lawe.' 'sothly,' quod i, 'my wit is leude, and i am right blynd, and that mater depe. how shulde i than have waded? lightly might i have drenched, and spilte ther my-selfe.' 'ye,' quod she, 'i shal helpe thee to swimme. for right as lawe punissheth brekers of preceptes and the contrary-doers of the written constitucions, right so ayenward lawe rewardeth and yeveth mede to hem that lawe strengthen. by one lawe this rebel is punisshed and this innocent is meded; the shrewe is enprisoned and this rightful is corowned. the same lawe that joyneth by wedlocke without forsaking, the same lawe yeveth lybel of departicion bycause of devorse both demed and declared.' 'ye, ye,' quod i, 'i fynde in no lawe to mede and rewarde in goodnes the gilty of desertes.' 'fole,' quod she, 'gilty, converted in your lawe, mikel merit deserveth. also pauly[n] of rome was crowned, that by him the maynteyners of pompeus weren knowen and distroyed; and yet toforn was this paulyn cheef of pompeus counsaile. this lawe in rome hath yet his name of mesuring, in mede, the bewraying of the conspiracy, ordayned by tho senatours the deth. julius cesar is acompted in-to catons rightwisnesse; for ever in trouth florissheth his name among the knowers of reson. perdicas was crowned in the heritage of alexander the grete, for tellinge of a prevy hate that king porrus to alexander hadde. wherfore every wight, by reson of lawe, after his rightwysenesse apertely his mede may chalenge; and so thou, that maynteynest lawe of kynde, and therfore disese hast suffred in the lawe, reward is worthy to be rewarded and ordayned, and +apertly thy mede might thou chalenge.' 'certes,' quod i, 'this have i wel lerned; and ever hens-forward i shal drawe me therafter, in oonhed of wil to abyde, this lawe bothe maynteyne and kepe; and so hope i best entre in-to your grace, wel deservinge in-to worship of a wight, without nedeful compulsion, [that] ought medefully to be rewarded.' 'truly,' quod love, 'that is sothe; and tho[ugh], by constitucion, good service in-to profit and avantage strecche, utterly many men it demen to have more desert of mede than good wil nat compelled.' 'see now,' quod i, 'how +many men holden of this the contrary. and what is good service? of you wolde i here this question declared.' 'i shal say thee,' quod she, 'in a fewe wordes:--resonable workinges in plesaunce and profit of thy soverayne.' 'how shulde i this performe?' quod i. 'right wel,' quod she; 'and here me now a litel. it is hardely (quod she) to understande, that right as mater by due overchaunginges foloweth his perfeccion and his forme, right so every man, by rightful werkinges, ought to folowe the lefful desyres in his herte, and see toforn to what ende he deserveth. for many tymes he that loketh nat after th'endes, but utterly therof is unknowen, befalleth often many yvels to done, wherthrough, er he be war, shamefully he is confounded; th'ende[s] therof neden to be before loked. to every desirer of suche foresight in good service, three thinges specially nedeth to be rulers in his workes. first, that he do good; next, that he do [it] by eleccion in his owne herte; and the thirde, that he do godly, withouten any surquedry in thoughtes. that your werkes shulden be good, in service or in any other actes, authoritès many may be aleged; neverthelater, by reson thus may it be shewed. al your werkes be cleped seconde, and moven in vertue of the firste wercher, whiche in good workes wrought you to procede; and right so your werkes moven in-to vertue of the laste ende: and right in the first workinge were nat, no man shulde in the seconde werche. right so, but ye feled to what ende, and seen their goodnes closed, ye shulde no more +recche what ye wrought; but the ginning gan with good, and there shal it cese in the laste ende, if it be wel considred. wherfore the middle, if other-wayes it drawe than accordant to the endes, there stinteth the course of good, and another maner course entreth; and so it is a partie by him-selve; and every part [that] be nat accordant to his al, is foul and ought to be eschewed. wherfore every thing that is wrought and be nat good, is nat accordant to th'endes of his al hole; it is foul, and ought to be withdrawe. thus the persons that neither don good ne harm shamen foule their making. wherfore, without working of good actes in good service, may no man ben accepted. truely, the ilke that han might to do good and doon it nat, the crowne of worship shal be take from hem, and with shame shul they be anulled; and so, to make oon werke acordant with his endes, every good servaunt, by reson of consequence, muste do good nedes. certes, it suffiseth nat alone to do good, but goodly withal folowe; the thanke of goodnesse els in nought he deserveth. for right as al your being come from the greetest good, in whom al goodnesse is closed, right so your endes ben directe to the same good. aristotel determineth that ende and good ben one, and convertible in understanding; and he that in wil doth awey good, and he that loketh nat to th'ende, loketh nat to good; but he that doth good and doth nat goodly, [and] draweth away the direction of th'ende nat goodly, must nedes be badde. lo! badde is nothing els but absence or negative of good, as derkenesse is absence or negative of light. than he that dooth [not] goodly, directeth thilke good in-to th'ende of badde; so muste thing nat good folowe: eke badnesse to suche folke ofte foloweth. thus contrariaunt workers of th'ende that is good ben worthy the contrary of th'ende that is good to have.' 'how,' quod i, 'may any good dede be doon, but-if goodly it helpe?' 'yes,' quod love, 'the devil doth many good dedes, but goodly he leveth be-hynde; for +ever badly and in disceyvable wyse he worketh; wherfore the contrary of th'ende him foloweth. and do he never so many good dedes, bicause goodly is away, his goodnes is nat rekened. lo! than, tho[ugh] a man do good, but he do goodly, th'ende in goodnesse wol nat folowe; and thus in good service both good dede and goodly doon musten joyne togider, and that it be doon with free choise in herte; and els deserveth he nat the merit in goodnes: that wol i prove. for if thou do any-thing good by chaunce or by happe, in what thing art thou therof worthy to be commended? for nothing, by reson of that, turneth in-to thy praysing ne lacking. lo! thilke thing doon by hap, by thy wil is nat caused; and therby shulde i thanke or lacke deserve? and sithen that fayleth, th'ende which that wel shulde rewarde, must ned[e]s faile. clerkes sayn, no man but willinge is blessed; a good dede that he hath doon is nat doon of free choice willing; without whiche blissednesse may nat folowe. _ergo_, neither thanke of goodnesse ne service [is] in that [that] is contrary of the good ende. so than, to good service longeth good dede goodly don, thorow free choice in herte.' 'truely,' quod i, 'this have i wel understande.' 'wel,' quod she, 'every thing thus doon sufficiently by lawe, that is cleped justice, [may] after-reward clayme. for lawe and justice was ordayned in this wyse, suche desertes in goodnesse, after quantitè in doinge, by mede to rewarde; and of necessitè of suche justice, that is to say, rightwysenesse, was free choice in deserving of wel or of yvel graunted to resonable creatures. every man hath free arbitrement to chose, good or yvel to performe.' 'now,' quod i tho, 'if i by my good wil deserve this margarit-perle, and am nat therto compelled, and have free choice to do what me lyketh; she is than holden, as me thinketh, to rewarde th'entent of my good wil.' 'goddes forbode els,' quod love; 'no wight meneth otherwyse, i trowe; free wil of good herte after-mede deserveth.' 'hath every man,' quod i, 'free choice by necessary maner of wil in every of his doinges that him lyketh, by goddes proper purvyaunce? i wolde see that wel declared to my leude understanding; for "necessary" and "necessitè" ben wordes of mokel entencion, closing (as to saye) so mote it be nedes, and otherwyse may it nat betyde.' 'this shalt thou lerne,' quod she, 'so thou take hede in my speche. if it were nat in mannes owne libertè of free wil to do good or bad, but to the one teyed by bonde of goddes preordinaunce, than, do he never so wel, it were by nedeful compulcion of thilk bonde, and nat by free choice, wherby nothing he desyreth: and do he never so yvel, it were nat man for to wyte, but onlich to him that suche thing ordayned him to done. wherfore he ne ought for bad[de] be punisshed, ne for no good dede be rewarded; but of necessitè of rightwisnesse was therfore free choice of arbitrement put in mans proper disposicion. truely, if it were otherwyse, it contraried goddes charitè, that badnesse and goodnesse rewardeth after desert of payne or of mede.' 'me thinketh this wonder,' quod i; 'for god by necessitè forwot al thinges coming, and so mote it nedes be; and thilke thinges that ben don +by our free choice comen nothing of necessitè but only +by wil. how may this stonde +togider? and so me thinketh truely, that free choice fully repugneth goddes forweting. trewly, lady, me semeth, they mowe nat stande +togider.' ch. ii. . nowe. . blynde. . howe. . yea. the. swym. . constitutions. aye_n_warde. . gyltie. . gyltie. merite. . pauly (_for_ paulyn; _first time_). . toforne. chefe. . amonge. - . reason. . great. . disease. rewarde. . apartly (_for_ ap_er_tly). . onehed. . _i supply_ that. . constitution. . profite. stretch. . se. howe may. . the. . profite. . howe. . nowe. . perfection. . leful. . hert. se. . ware. . thre. . _i supply_ it. electyon. . hert. . reason. maye. . recth (_for_ retch); _read_ recche. . cease. . p_ar_te. _i supply_ that. - . foule. . harme. . done. . one. . reason. . greatest. . _i supply_ and. . bad. negatyfe (_first time_). . _i supply_ not. . done. . dothe. . even; _read_ ever. . tho. - . done (_twice_). . hert. . merite. . reason. . done. shulde i; _put for_ shuldest thou. . neds (_sic_). - . done (_twice_). . _i supply_ is _and_ that. . thorowe fre. hert. . done. . _i supply_ may. rewarde claym. . nowe. . meaneth. . hert. . fre. . se. . ente_n_tion. . lern. - . fre (_twice_). . onelych. . bad. . fre. . disposition. . payn. . forwote. . be; _for_ by. fre. . onely be; _for_ by. howe. - . togyther; _read_ togider. . fre. chapter iii. than gan love nighe me nere, and with a noble countenance of visage and limmes, dressed her nigh my sitting-place. 'take forth,' quod she, 'thy pen, and redily wryte these wordes. for if god wol, i shal hem so enforme to thee, that thy leudnesse which i have understande in that mater shal openly be clered, and thy sight in ful loking therin amended. first, if thou thinke that goddes prescience repugne libertè of arbitrement, it is impossible that they shulde accorde in onheed of sothe to understonding.' 'ye,' quod i, 'forsothe; so i it conceyve.' 'wel,' quod she, 'if thilke impossible were away, the repugnaunce that semeth to be therin were utterly removed.' 'shewe me the absence of that impossibilitè,' quod i. 'so,' quod she, 'i shal. now i suppose that they mowe stande togider: prescience of god, whom foloweth necessitè of thinges comming, and libertè of arbitrement, thorow whiche thou belevest many thinges to be without necessitè.' 'bothe these proporcions be sothe,' quod i, 'and wel mowe stande togider; wherfore this case as possible i admit.' 'truely,' quod she, 'and this case is impossible.' 'how so?' quod i. 'for herof,' quod she, 'foloweth and wexeth another impossible.' 'prove me that,' quod i. 'that i shal,' quod she; 'for somthing is comming without necessitè, and god wot that toforn; for al thing comming he before wot, and that he beforn wot of necessitè is comming, as he beforn wot be the case by necessary maner; or els, thorow necessitè, is somthing to be without necessitè; and wheder, to every wight that hath good understanding, is seen these thinges to be repugnaunt: prescience of god, whiche that foloweth necessitè, and libertè of arbitrement, fro whiche is removed necessitè? for truely, it is necessary that god have forweting of thing withouten any necessitè cominge.' 'ye,' quod i; 'but yet remeve ye nat away fro myne understanding the necessitè folowing goddes be foreweting, as thus. god beforn wot me in service of love to be bounden to this margarite-perle, and therfore by necessitè thus to love am i bounde; and if i had nat loved, thorow necessitè had i ben kept from al love-dedes.' 'certes,' quod love, 'bicause this mater is good and necessary to declare, i thinke here-in wel to abyde, and not lightly to passe. thou shalt not (quod she) say al-only, "god beforn wot me to be a lover or no lover," but thus: "god beforn wot me to be a lover without necessitè." and so foloweth, whether thou love or not love, every of hem is and shal be. but now thou seest the impossibilitè of the case, and the possibilitè of thilke that thou wendest had been impossible; wherfore the repugnaunce is adnulled.' 'ye,' quod i; 'and yet do ye not awaye the strength of necessitè, whan it is said, th[r]ough necessitè it is me in love to abyde, or not to love without necessitè for god beforn wot it. this maner of necessitè forsothe semeth to some men in-to coaccion, that is to sayne, constrayning, or else prohibicion, that is, defendinge; wherfore necessitè is me to love of wil. i understande me to be constrayned by some privy strength to the wil of lovinge; and if [i] no[t] love, to be defended from the wil of lovinge: and so thorow necessitè me semeth to love, for i love; or els not to love, if i not love; wherthrough neither thank ne maugrè in tho thinges may i deserve.' 'now,' quod she, 'thou shalt wel understande, that often we sayn thing thorow necessitè to be, that by no strength to be neither is coarted ne constrayned; and through necessitè not to be, that with no defendinge is removed. for we sayn it is thorow necessitè god to be immortal, nought deedliche; and it is necessitè, god to be rightful; but not that any strength of violent maner constrayneth him to be immortal, or defendeth him to be unrightful; for nothing may make him dedly or unrightful. right so, if i say, thorow necessitè is thee to be a lover or els noon; only thorow wil, as god beforn wete. it is nat to understonde that any thing defendeth or forbit thee thy wil, whiche shal nat be; or els constrayneth it to be, whiche shal be. that same thing, forsoth, god before wot, whiche he beforn seeth. any thing commende of only wil, that wil neyther is constrayned ne defended thorow any other thing. and so thorow libertè of arbitrement it is do, that is don of wil. and trewly, my good child, if these thinges be wel understonde, i wene that non inconvenient shalt thou fynde betwene goddes forweting and libertè of arbitrement; wherfore i wot wel they may stande togider. also farthermore, who that understanding of prescience properlich considreth, thorow the same wyse that any-thing be afore wist is said, for to be comming it is pronounced; there is nothing toforn wist but thing comming; foreweting is but of trouth[e]; dout[e] may nat be wist; wherfore, whan i sey that god toforn wot any-thing, thorow necessitè is thilke thing to be comming; al is oon if i sey, it shal be. but this necessitè neither constrayneth ne defendeth any-thing to be or nat to be. therfore sothly, if love is put to be, it is said of necessitè to be; or els, for it is put nat to be, it is affirmed nat to be of necessitè; nat for that necessitè constrayneth or defendeth love to be or nat to be. for whan i say, if love shal be, of necessitè it shal be, here foloweth necessitè the thing toforn put; it is as moch to say as if it were thus pronounced--"that thing shal be." noon other thing signifyeth this necessitè but only thus: that shal be, may nat togider be and nat be. evenlich also it is soth, love was, and is, and shal be, nat of necessitè; and nede is to have be al that was; and nedeful is to be al that is; and comming, to al that shal be. and it is nat the same to saye, love to be passed, and love passed to be passed; or love present to be present, and love to be present; or els love to be comminge, and love comminge to be comming. dyversitè in setting of wordes maketh dyversitè in understandinge; altho[ugh] in the same sentence they accorden of significacion; right as it is nat al oon, love swete to be swete, and love to be swete. for moch love is bitter and sorouful, er hertes ben esed; and yet it glad[d]eth thilke sorouful herte on suche love to thinke.' 'forsothe,' quod i, 'outherwhile i have had mokel blisse in herte of love that stoundmele hath me sorily anoyed. and certes, lady, for i see my-self thus knit with this margarite-perle as by bonde of your service and of no libertè of wil, my herte wil now nat acorde this service to love. i can demin in my-selfe non otherwise but thorow necessitè am i constrayned in this service to abyde. but alas! than, if i thorow nedeful compulsioun maugre me be with-holde, litel thank for al my greet traveil have i than deserved.' 'now,' quod this lady, 'i saye as i sayde: me lyketh this mater to declare at the ful, and why: for many men have had dyvers fantasyes and resons, both on one syde therof and in the other. of whiche right sone, i trowe, if thou wolt understonde, thou shalt conne yeve the sentence to the partie more probable by reson, and in soth knowing, by that i have of this mater maked an ende.' 'certes,' quod i, 'of these thinges longe have i had greet lust to be lerned; for yet, i wene, goddes wil and his prescience acordeth with my service in lovinge of this precious margarite-perle. after whom ever, in my herte, with thursting desyre wete, i do brenne; unwasting, i langour and fade; and the day of my desteny in dethe or in joye i +onbyde; but yet in th'ende i am comforted +by my supposaile, in blisse and in joye to determine after my desyres.' 'that thing,' quoth love, 'hastely to thee neigh, god graunt of his grace and mercy! and this shal be my prayer, til thou be lykende in herte at thyne owne wil. but now to enforme thee in this mater (quod this lady) thou wost where i lefte; that was: love to be swete, and love swete to be swete, is not al oon for to say. for a tree is nat alway by necessitè white. somtyme, er it were white, it might have be nat white; and after tyme it is white, it may be nat white. but a white tree evermore nedeful is to be white; for neither toforn ne after it was white, might it be togider white and nat white. also love, by necessitè, is nat present as now in thee; for er it were present, it might have be that it shulde now nat have be; and yet it may be that it shal nat be present; but thy love present whiche to her, margarite, thee hath bounde, nedeful is to be present. trewly, som doing of accion, nat by necessitè, is comminge fer toforn it be; it may be that it shal nat be comminge. thing forsoth comming nedeful is to be comming; for it may nat be that comming shal nat be comming. and right as i have sayd of present and of future tymes, the same sentence in sothnesse is of the preterit, that is to say, tyme passed. for thing passed must nedes be passed; and er it were, it might have nat be; wherfore it shulde nat have passed. right so, whan love comming is said of love that is to come, nedeful is to be that is said; for thing comming never is nat comminge. and so, ofte, the same thing we sayn of the same; as whan we sayn "every man is a man," or "every lover is a lover," so muste it be nedes. in no waye may he be man and no man togider. and if it be nat by necessitè, that is to say nedeful, al thing comming to be comming, than somthing comming is nat comminge, and that is impossible. right as these termes "nedeful," "necessitè," and "necessary" betoken and signify thing nedes to be, and it may nat otherwyse be, right [so] +this terme "impossible" signifyeth, that [a] thing is nat and by no way may it be. than, thorow pert necessitè, al thing comming is comming; but that is by necessitè foloweth, with nothing to be constrayned. lo! whan that "comming" is said of thinge, nat alway thing thorow necessitè is, altho[ugh] it be comming. for if i say, "to-morowe love is comming in this margarites herte," nat therfore thorow necessitè shal the ilke love be; yet it may be that it shal nat be, altho[ugh] it were comming. neverthelater, somtyme it is soth that somthing be of necessitè, that is sayd "to come"; as if i say, to-morowe +be comminge the rysinge of the sonne. if therfore with necessitè i pronounce comming of thing to come, in this maner love to-morne comminge in thyne margarite to thee-ward, by necessitè is comminge; or els the rysing of the sonne to-morne comminge, through necessitè is comminge. love sothely, whiche may nat be of necessitè alone folowinge, thorow necessitè comming it is mad certayn. for "futur" of future is said; that is to sayn, "comming" of comminge is said; as, if to-morowe comming is thorow necessitè, comminge it is. arysing of the sonne, thorow two necessitès in comming, it is to understande; that oon is to-for[e]going necessitè, whiche maketh thing to be; therfore it shal be, for nedeful is that it be. another is folowing necessitè, whiche nothing constrayneth to be, and so by necessitè it is to come; why? for it is to come. now than, whan we sayn that god beforn wot thing comming, nedeful [it] is to be comming; yet therfore make we nat in certayn evermore, thing to be thorow necessitè comminge. sothly, thing comming may nat be nat comming by no way; for it is the same sentence of understanding as if we say thus: if god beforn wot any-thing, nedeful is that to be comming. but yet therfore foloweth nat the prescience of god, thing thorow necessitè to be comming: for al-tho[ugh] god toforn wot al thinges comming, yet nat therfore he beforn wot every thing comming thorow necessitè. some thinges he beforn wot comming of free wil out of resonable creature.' 'certes,' quod i, 'these termes "nede" and "necessitè" have a queint maner of understanding; they wolden dullen many mennes wittes.' 'therfore,' quod she, 'i wol hem openly declare, and more clerely than i have toforn, er i departe hen[ne]s. ch. iii. . nygh. . the. . vndersta_n_d. . lyberte of arbetry of arbitrement; _omit_ arbetry of. . nowe. . thorowe. . howe. . beforne. maner than (_omit_ than). thorowe. . whed_er_to. . beforne wote. . thorowe. kepte. . shalte. onely. - . beforne wote (_twice_). . nowe. . though; _read_ through. . beforne wote. . coaction. . _supply_ i; _for_ no _read_ not; _see_ l. . . thorowe. . thanke. . maye. . nowe. shalte. . sayne. thorowe. . throughe. . sayne. . thorowe. . violente. . thorowe. the. . none. onely thorowe. beforne. . the. - . thynge. . co_m_mende; _for_ comminge. onely. . thorowe (_twice_). . done. . childe. vndersto_n_d. . thorowe. . trouth. dout. . wote. thorowe. . if it shal be; _omit_ if. . toforne. . none. . onely. . altho. . signification. one. . eased. hert. . hert. . se. peerle. . hert. . nowe. . thorowe. . thorowe. . thanke. great. . nowe. . reasons. . shalte con. . reason. . great luste. . hert. weete. . vnbyde (!). . be; _for_ by. . nowe. the. . one. . maye. . nowe. the. . nowe. maye. . the. . some. . action. ferre. . thynge. . sayne. . _i supply_ so. these termes; _read_ this terme. . _i supply_ a. - . thorowe. (_twice_). . altho. . hert. . altho. . by; _read_ be. . the warde. . thorowe. . made certayne. . thorowe. . one. . to forgoing. . nowe. . _i supply_ it. . certayne. thynge. thorowe. . maye. . thorowe. . wote. . thorowe. . hense; _read_ hennes. chapter iv. here of this mater,' quod she, 'thou shalt understande that, right as it is nat nedeful, god to wilne that he wil, no more in many thinges is nat nedeful, a man to wilne that he wol. and ever, right as nedeful is to be, what that god wol, right so to be it is nedeful that man wol in tho thinges, whiche that god hath put in-to mannes subjeccion of willinge; as, if a man wol love, that he love; and if he ne wol love, that he love nat; and of suche other thinges in mannes disposicion. for-why, now than that god wol may nat be, whan he wol the wil of man thorow no necessitè to be constrayned or els defended for to wilne, and he wol th'effect to folowe the wil; than is it nedeful, wil of man to be free, and also to be that he wol. in this maner it is soth, that thorow necessitè is mannes werke in loving, that he wol do altho[ugh] he wol it nat with necessitè.' quod i than, 'how stant it in love of thilke wil, sithen men loven willing of free choice in herte? wherfore, if it be thorow necessitè, i praye you, lady, of an answere this question to assoyle.' 'i wol,' quod she, 'answere thee blyvely. right as men wil not thorow necessitè, right so is not love of wil thorow necessitè; ne thorow necessitè wrought thilke same wil. for if he wolde it not with good wil, it shulde nat have been wrought; although that he doth, it is nedeful to be doon. but if a man do sinne, it is nothing els but to +wilne that he shulde nat; right so sinne of wil is not to be [in] maner necessary don, no more than wil is necessarye. never-the-later, this is sothe; if a man wol sinne, it is necessarye him to sinne, but th[r]ough thilke necessitè nothing is constrayned ne defended in the wil; right so thilke thing that free-wil wol and may, and not may not wilne; and nedeful is that to wilne he may not wilne. but thilke to wilne nedeful is; for impossible to him it is oon thing and the same to wilne and not to wilne. the werke, forsothe, of wil, to whom it is yeve that it be that he hath in wil, and that he wol not, voluntarie +or spontanye it is; for by spontanye wil it is do, that is to saye, with good wil not constrayned: than by wil not constrayned it is constrayned to be; and that is it may not +togider be. if this necessitè maketh libertè of wil, whiche that, aforn they weren, they might have ben eschewed and shonned: god than, whiche that knoweth al tr[o]uthe, and nothing but tr[o]uthe, al these thinges, as they arn spontanye or necessarie, +seeth; and as he seeth, so they ben. and so with these thinges wel considred, it is open at the ful, that without al maner repugnaunce god beforn wot al maner thinges [that] ben don by free wil, whiche, aforn they weren, [it] might have ben [that] never they shulde be. and yet ben they thorow a maner necessitè from free wil +discended. hereby may (quod she) lightly ben knowe that not al thinges to be, is of necessitè, though god have hem in his prescience. for som thinges to be, is of libertè of wil. and to make thee to have ful knowinge of goddes beforn-weting, here me (quod she) what i shal say.' 'blythly, lady,' quod i, 'me list this mater entyrely to understande.' 'thou shalt,' quod she, 'understande that in heven is goddes beinge; although he be over al by power, yet there is abydinge of devyne persone; in whiche heven is everlastinge presence, withouten any movable tyme. there * is nothing preterit ne passed, there is nothing future ne comming; but al thinges togider in that place ben present everlasting, without any meving. wherfore, to god, al thing is as now; and though a thing be nat, in kyndly nature of thinges, as yet, and if it shulde be herafter, yet evermore we shul saye, god it maketh be tyme present, and now; for no future ne preterit in him may be founde. wherfore his weting and his before-weting is al oon in understanding. than, if weting and before-weting of god putteth in necessitè to al thinges whiche he wot or before-wot; ne thing, after eternitè or els after any tyme, he wol or doth of libertè, but al of necessitè: whiche thing if thou wene it be ayenst reson, [than is] nat thorow necessitè to be or nat to be, al thing that god wot or before-wot to be or nat to be; and yet nothing defendeth any-thing to be wist or to be before-wist of him in our willes or our doinges to be don, or els comminge to be for free arbitrement. whan thou hast these declaracions wel understande, than shalt thou fynde it resonable at prove, and that many thinges be nat thorow necessitè but thorow libertè of wil, save necessitè of free wil, as i tofore said, and, as me thinketh, al utterly declared.' 'me thinketh, lady,' quod i, 'so i shulde you nat displese, and evermore your reverence to kepe, that these thinges contraryen in any understanding; for ye sayn, somtyme is thorow libertè of wil, and also thorow necessitè. of this have i yet no savour, without better declaracion.' 'what wonder,' quod she, 'is there in these thinges, sithen al day thou shalt see at thyne eye, in many thinges receyven in hem-selfe revers, thorow dyvers resons, as thus:--i pray thee (quod she) which thinges ben more revers than "comen" and "gon"? for if i bidde thee "come to me," and thou come, after, whan i bidde thee "go," and thou go, thou reversest fro thy first comming.' 'that is soth,' quod i. 'and yet,' quod she, 'in thy first alone, by dyvers reson, was ful reversinge to understande.' 'as how?' quod i. 'that shal i shewe thee,' quod she, 'by ensample of thinges that have kyndly moving. is there any-thing that meveth more kyndly than doth the hevens eye, whiche i clepe the sonne?' 'sothly,' quod i, 'me semeth it is most kyndly to move.' 'thou sayest soth,' quod she. 'than, if thou loke to the sonne, in what parte he be under heven, evermore he +hyeth him in moving fro thilke place, and +hyeth meving toward the ilke same place; to thilke place from whiche he goth he +hyeth comminge; and without any ceesinge to that place he neigheth from whiche he is chaunged and withdrawe. but now in these thinges, after dyversitè of reson, revers in one thinge may be seye without repugnaunce. wherfore in the same wyse, without any repugnaunce, by my resons tofore maked, al is oon to beleve, somthing to be thorow necessitè comminge for it is comming, and yet with no necessitè constrayned to be comming, but with necessitè that cometh out of free wil, as i have sayd.' tho liste me a litel to speke, and gan stinte my penne of my wryting, and sayde in this wyse. 'trewly, lady, as me thinketh, i can allege authoritees grete, that contrarien your sayinges. job saith of mannes person, "thou hast put his terme, whiche thou might not passe." than saye i that no man may shorte ne lengthe the day ordayned of his +dying, altho[ugh] somtyme to us it semeth som man to do a thing of free wil, wherthorow his deeth he henteth.' 'nay, forsothe,' quod she, 'it is nothing ayenst my saying; for god is not begyled, ne he seeth nothing wheder it shal come of libertè or els of necessitè; yet it is said to be ordayned at god immovable, whiche at man, or it be don, may be chaunged. suche thing is also that poule the apostel saith of hem that tofore wern purposed to be sayntes, as thus: "whiche that god before wiste and hath predestined conformes of images of his +sone, that he shulde ben the firste begeten, that is to saye, here amonges many brethren; and whom he hath predestined, hem he hath cleped; and whom he hath cleped, hem he hath justifyed; and whom he hath justifyed, hem he hath magnifyed." this purpos, after whiche they ben cleped sayntes or holy in the everlasting present, wher is neither tyme passed ne tyme comminge, but ever it is only present, and now as mokel a moment as sevin thousand winter; and so ayenward withouten any meving is nothing lich temporel presence for thinge that there is ever present. yet amonges you men, er it be in your presence, it is movable thorow libertè of arbitrement. and right as in the everlasting present no maner thing was ne shal be, but only _is_; and now here, in your temporel tyme, somthing was, and is, and shal be, but movinge stoundes; and in this is no maner repugnaunce: right so, in the everlasting presence, nothing may be chaunged; and, in your temporel tyme, otherwhyle it is proved movable by libertè of wil or it be do, withouten any inconvenience therof to folowe. in your temporel tyme is no suche presence as in the tother; for your present is don whan passed and to come ginnen entre; whiche tymes here amonges you everich esily foloweth other. but the presence everlasting dureth in oonhed, withouten any imaginable chaunging, and ever is present and now. trewly, the course of the planettes and overwhelminges of the sonne in dayes and nightes, with a newe ginning of his circute after it is ended, that is to sayn, oon yeer to folowe another: these maken your transitory tymes with chaunginge of lyves and mutacion of people, but right as your temporel presence coveiteth every place, and al thinges in every of your tymes be contayned, and as now both seye and wist to goddes very knowinge.' 'than,' quod i, 'me wondreth why poule spak these wordes by voice of significacion in tyme passed, that god his sayntes before-wist hath predestined, hath cleped, hath justifyed, and hath magnifyed. me thinketh, he shulde have sayd tho wordes in tyme present; and that had ben more accordaunt to the everlasting present than to have spoke in preterit voice of passed understanding.' 'o,' quod love, 'by these wordes i see wel thou hast litel understanding of the everlasting presence, or els of my before spoken wordes; for never a thing of tho thou hast nempned was tofore other or after other; but al at ones evenlich at the god ben, and al togider in the everlasting present be now to understanding. this eternal presence, as i sayd, hath inclose togider in one al tymes, in which close and one al thinges that ben in dyvers tymes and in dyvers places temporel, [and] without posterioritè or prioritè ben closed ther in perpetual now, and maked to dwelle in present sight. but there thou sayest that poule shulde have spoke thilke forsaid sentence +by tyme present, and that most shulde have ben acordaunt to the everlasting presence, why gabbest thou +in thy wordes? sothly, i say, poule moved the wordes by significacion of tyme passed, to shewe fully that thilk wordes were nat put for temporel significacion; for al [at] thilk tyme [of] thilke sentence were nat temporallich born, whiche that poule pronounced god have tofore knowe, and have cleped, than magnifyed. wherthorow it may wel be knowe that poule used tho wordes of passed significacion, for nede and lacke of a worde in mannes bodily speche betokeninge the everlasting presence. and therfore, [in] worde moste semeliche in lykenesse to everlasting presence, he took his sentence; for thinges that here-beforn ben passed utterly be immovable, y-lyke to the everlasting presence. as thilke that ben there never mowe not ben present, so thinges of tyme passed ne mowe in no wyse not ben passed; but al thinges in your temporal presence, that passen in a litel while, shullen ben not present. so than in that, it is more similitude to the everlasting presence, significacion of tyme passed than of tyme temporal present, and so more in accordaunce. in this maner what thing, of these that ben don thorow free arbitrement, or els as necessary, holy writ pronounceth, after eternitè he speketh; in whiche presence is everlasting sothe and nothing but sothe immovable; nat after tyme, in whiche naught alway ben your willes and your actes. and right as, while they be nat, it is nat nedeful hem to be, so ofte it is nat nedeful that somtyme they shulde be.' 'as how?' quod i; 'for yet i must be lerned by some ensample.' 'of love,' quod she, 'wol i now ensample make, sithen i knowe the heed-knotte in that yelke. lo! somtyme thou wrytest no art, ne art than in no wil to wryte. and right as while thou wrytest nat or els wolt nat wryte, it is nat nedeful thee to wryte or els wilne to wryte. and for to make thee knowe utterly that thinges ben otherwise in the everlastinge presence than in temporal tyme, see now, my good child: for somthing is in the everlastinge presence, than in temporal tyme it was nat; in +eterne tyme, in eterne presence shal it nat be. than no reson defendeth, that somthing ne may be in tyme temporal moving, that in eterne is immovable. forsothe, it is no more contrary ne revers for to be movable in tyme temporel, and [im]movable in eternitè, than nat to be in any tyme and to be alway in eternitè; and to have be or els to come in tyme temporel, and nat have be ne nought comming to be in eternitè. yet never-the-later, i say nat somthing to be never in tyme temporel, that ever is [in] eternitè; but al-only in som tyme nat to be. for i saye nat thy love to-morne in no tyme to be, but to-day alone i deny it to be; and yet, never-the-later, it is alway in eternitè.' 'a! so,' quod i, 'it semeth to me, that comming thing or els passed here in your temporal tyme to be, in eternitè ever now and present oweth nat to be demed; and yet foloweth nat thilke thing, that was or els shal be, in no maner ther to ben passed or els comming; than utterly shul we deny for there without ceesing it is, in his present maner.' 'o,' quod she, 'myne owne disciple, now ginnest thou [be] able to have the name of my servaunt! thy wit is clered; away is now errour of cloude in unconning; away is blyndnesse of love; away is thoughtful study of medling maners. hastely shalt thou entre in-to the joye of me, that am thyn owne maistres! thou hast (quod she), in a fewe wordes, wel and clerely concluded mokel of my mater. and right as there is no revers ne contrarioustee in tho thinges, right so, withouten any repugnaunce, it is sayd somthing to be movable in tyme temporel, +afore it be, that in eternitè dwelleth immovable, nat afore it be or after that it is, but without cessing; for right naught is there after tyme; that same is there everlastinge that temporalliche somtyme nis; and toforn it be, it may not be, as i have sayd.' 'now sothly,' quod i, 'this have i wel understande; so that now me thinketh, that prescience of god and free arbitrement withouten any repugnaunce acorden; and that maketh the strength of eternitè, whiche encloseth by presence during al tymes, and al thinges that ben, han ben, and shul ben in any tyme. i wolde now (quod i) a litel understande, sithen that [god] al thing thus beforn wot, whether thilke wetinge be of tho thinges, or els thilke thinges ben to ben of goddes weting, and so of god nothing is; and if every thing be thorow goddes weting, and therof take his being, than shulde god be maker and auctour of badde werkes, and so he shulde not rightfully punisshe yvel doinges of mankynde.' quod love, 'i shal telle thee, this lesson to lerne. myne owne trewe servaunt, the noble philosophical poete in englissh, whiche evermore him besieth and travayleth right sore my name to encrese (wherfore al that willen me good owe to do him worship and reverence bothe; trewly, his better ne his pere in scole of my rules coude i never fynde)--he (quod she), in a tretis that he made of my servant troilus, hath this mater touched, and at the ful this question assoyled. certaynly, his noble sayinges can i not amende; in goodnes of gentil manliche speche, without any maner of nycetè of +storiers imaginacion, in witte and in good reson of sentence he passeth al other makers. in the boke of troilus, the answere to thy question mayst thou lerne. never-the-later, yet may lightly thyne understandinge somdel ben lerned, if thou have knowing of these to-fornsaid thinges; with that thou have understanding of two the laste chapiters of this seconde boke, that is to say, good to be somthing, and bad to wante al maner being. for badde is nothing els but absence of good; and [as] that god in good maketh that good dedes ben good, in yvel he maketh that they ben but naught, that they ben bad; for to nothing is badnesse to be [lykned].' 'i have,' quod i tho, 'ynough knowing therin; me nedeth of other thinges to here, that is to saye, how i shal come to my blisse so long desyred.' ch. iv. . shalte. . subiection. . disposition. . nowe. . thorowe. . theffecte. folow. . fre. . thorowe. . altho. . howe stante. . thorowe. . the. - . thorowe (_thrice_). . dothe. doone. . wyl; _read_ wilne; _see_ l. . . _i supply_ in. done. . thynge. . frewyl. maye. . maye. - . _some words repeated here._ . one. . whome. . of; _read_ or. . togyther; _read_ togider. . libertie. aforne. . truthe (_twice_). . arne. syght; _read_ seeth. . beforne. . _i supply_ that. fre. aforne. . _i supply_ it _and_ that. . frewyl discendeth (!). . maye. . libertie. the. . beforne. . shalte. * _a break here in_ th. . nowe. thynge. . nowe. . one. . dothe. . reason. _i supply_ than is. thorowe. . thynge. . done. . haste. . declarations. - . thorowe (_twice_). . displease. . sayne. - . thorowe. . declaration. . shalte se. . reasons. the. . gone. - . thee (_twice_). . reasone. . howe. . the. . heigheth; _read_ hyeth. . higheth; _read_ hyeth. towarde. . gothe. heigheth; _read_ hyeth. . ceasynge. . nowe. . reason. sey. . reasons. one. . thorowe. . list. stynt. . sayd. . gret. . sayenges. . putte. . length. . doyng; _read_ dying. some. . thynge. -thorowe. dethe. . naye. sayeng. . done. . saithe. toforne werne. . wyst. sonne; _read_ sone. . brethern. . purpose. . onely. nowe. thousande. . ayenwarde. . thorowe. . onely. nowe. . done. . easely. . onehed. . nowe. . one yere. . mutation. . nowe. . sey. . spake. . signification. . sayde. . se. , . nowe. . _i supply_ and. . therin; _read_ ther in. . dwel. . be; _read_ by. . to; _read_ in. - . signification (_twice_). . _i supply_ at. . were nat thilke sentence; _transpose, and insert_ of. borne. . wherthorowe. know. . signification. . spech. . _i supply_ in; _and omit_ is _after_ worde. . toke. . beforne. . signification. . thynge. done thorowe fre. . writte. . nowe. . arte (_twice_). . the. . the. . se nowe. childe. somthynge. . eternite; _read_ eterne. reason. . movable (!). . and have to be. . _i supply_ in. al onely. somtyme. . deny ne it; _omit_ ne. alwaye. . nowe. . thynge. thereto; _read_ ther to. . ceasyng. . nowe. _i supply_ be. . witte. . nowe. awaye. . shalte. . haste. . contrarioustie. . and for; _read_ afore. . toforne. maye. . nowe. . nowe. fre. . nowe. . _i supply_ god. beforne. . nothynge. thorowe. . tel the. . encrease. . schole. treatise. . sayenges. . gentyl manlyche. . nycite. starieres (!). . reason. . mayste. . somdele. . want. . _i supply_ as. . _i supply_ lykned. . howe. chapter v. 'in this mater toforn declared,' quod love, 'i have wel shewed, that every man hath free arbitrement of thinges in his power, to do or undo what him lyketh. out of this grounde muste come the spire, that by processe of tyme shal in greetnesse sprede, to have braunches and blosmes of waxing frute in grace, of whiche the taste and the savour is endelesse blisse, in joye ever to onbyde.'* 'now, trewly, lady, i have my grounde wel understonde; but what thing is thilke spire that in-to a tree shulde wexe? expowne me that thing, what ye therof mene.' 'that shal i,' quod she, 'blithly, and take good hede to the wordes, i thee rede. continuaunce in thy good service, by longe processe of tyme in ful hope abyding, without any chaunge to wilne in thyne herte, this is the spire. whiche, if it be wel kept and governed, shal so hugely springe, til the fruit of grace is plentuously out-sprongen. for although thy wil be good, yet may not therfore thilk blisse desyred hastely on thee discenden; it must abyde his sesonable tyme. and so, by processe of growing, with thy good traveyle, it shal in-to more and more wexe, til it be found so mighty, that windes of yvel speche, ne scornes of envy, make nat the traveyle overthrowe; ne frostes of mistrust, ne hayles of jelousy right litel might have, in harming of suche springes. every yonge setling lightly with smale stormes is apeyred; but whan it is woxen somdel in gretnesse, than han grete blastes and +weders but litel might, any disadvantage to them for to werche.' 'myne owne soverayne lady,' quod i, 'and welth of myne herte, and it were lyking un-to your noble grace therthrough nat to be displesed, i suppose ye erren, now ye maken jelousy, envy, and distourbour to hem that ben your servauntes. i have lerned ofte, to-forn this tyme, that in every lovers herte greet plentee of jelousyes greves ben sowe, wherfore (me thinketh) ye ne ought in no maner accompte thilke thing among these other welked wivers and venomous serpentes, as envy, mistrust, and yvel speche.' 'o fole,' quod she, 'mistrust with foly, with yvel wil medled, engendreth that welked padde! truely, if they were distroyed, jelousy undon were for ever; and yet some maner of jelousy, i wot wel, is ever redy in al the hertes of my trewe servauntes, as thus: to be jelous over him-selfe, lest he be cause of his own disese. this jelousy in ful thought ever shulde be kept, for ferdnesse to lese his love by miskeping, thorow his owne doing in leudnesse, or els thus: lest she, that thou servest so fervently, is beset there her better lyketh, that of al thy good service she compteth nat a cresse. these jelousies in herte for acceptable qualitees ben demed; these oughten every trewe lover, by kyndly [maner], evermore haven in his mynde, til fully the grace and blisse of my service be on him discended at wil. and he that than jelousy caccheth, or els by wening of his owne folisshe wilfulnesse mistrusteth, truely with fantasy of venim he is foule begyled. yvel wil hath grounded thilke mater of sorowe in his leude soule, and yet nat-for-than to every wight shulde me nat truste, ne every wight fully misbeleve; the mene of these thinges +oweth to be used. sothly, withouten causeful evidence mistrust in jelousy shulde nat be wened in no wyse person commenly; suche leude wickednesse shulde me nat fynde. he that is wyse and with yvel wil nat be acomered, can abyde wel his tyme, til grace and blisse of his service folowing have him so mokel esed, as his abydinge toforehande hath him disesed.' 'certes, lady,' quod i tho, 'of nothing me wondreth, sithen thilke blisse so precious is and kyndly good, and wel is and worthy in kynde whan it is medled with love and reson, as ye toforn have declared. why, anon as hye oon is spronge, why springeth nat the tother? and anon as the oon cometh, why receyveth nat the other? for every thing that is out of his kyndly place, by ful appetyt ever cometh thiderward kyndely to drawe; and his kyndly being ther-to him constrayneth. and the kyndly stede of this blisse is in suche wil medled to +onbyde, and nedes in that it shulde have his kyndly being. wherfore me thinketh, anon as that wil to be shewed and kid him profreth, thilke blisse shulde him hye, thilk wil to receyve; or els kynde[s] of goodnesse worchen nat in hem as they shulde. lo, be the sonne never so fer, ever it hath his kynde werching in erthe. greet weight on hye on-lofte caried stinteth never til it come to +his resting-place. waters to the see-ward ever ben they drawing. thing that is light blythly wil nat sinke, but ever ascendeth and upward draweth. thus kynde in every thing his kyndly cours and his beinge-place sheweth. wherfore +by kynde, on this good wil, anon as it were spronge, this blisse shulde thereon discende; her kynde[s] wolde, they dwelleden togider; and so have ye sayd your-selfe.' 'certes,' quod she, 'thyne herte sitteth wonder sore, this blisse for to have; thyne herte is sore agreved that it tarieth so longe; and if thou durstest, as me thinketh by thyne wordes, this blisse woldest thou blame. but yet i saye, thilke blisse is kyndly good, and his kyndely place [is] in that wil to +onbyde. never-the-later, their comming togider, after kyndes ordinaunce, nat sodaynly may betyde; it muste abyde tyme, as kynde yeveth him leve. for if a man, as this wil medled gonne him shewe, and thilke blisse in haste folowed, so lightly comminge shulde lightly cause going. longe tyme of thursting causeth drink to be the more delicious whan it is atasted.' 'how is it,' quod i than, 'that so many blisses see i al day at myne eye, in the firste moment of a sight, with suche wil accorde? ye, and yet other-whyle with wil assenteth, singulerly by him-selfe; there reson fayleth, traveyle was non; service had no tyme. this is a queynt maner thing, how suche doing cometh aboute.' 'o,' quod she, 'that is thus. the erthe kyndely, after sesons and tymes of the yere, bringeth forth innumerable herbes and trees, bothe profitable and other; but suche as men might leve (though they nought in norisshinge to mannes kynde serven, or els suche as tournen sone unto mennes confusion, in case that therof they ataste), comen forth out of the erthe by their owne kynde, withouten any mannes cure or any businesse in traveyle. and the ilke herbes that to mennes lyvelode necessarily serven, without whiche goodly in this lyfe creatures mowen nat enduren, and most ben +norisshinge to mankynde, without greet traveyle, greet tilthe, and longe abydinge-tyme, comen nat out of the erthe, and [y]it with sede toforn ordayned, suche herbes to make springe and forth growe. right so the parfit blisse, that we have in meninge of during-tyme to abyde, may nat come so lightly, but with greet traveyle and right besy tilth; and yet good seed to be sowe; for ofte the croppe fayleth of badde seede, be it never so wel traveyled. and thilke blisse thou spoke of so lightly in comming, trewly, is nat necessary ne abydinge; and but it the better be stamped, and the venomous jeuse out-wrongen, it is lykely to enpoysonen al tho that therof tasten. certes, right bitter ben the herbes that shewen first [in] the yere of her own kynde. wel the more is the harvest that yeldeth many graynes, tho longe and sore it hath ben traveyled. what woldest thou demen if a man wold yeve three quarters of nobles of golde? that were a precious gift?' 'ye, certes,' quod i. 'and what,' quod she, 'three quarters ful of perles?' 'certes,' quod i, 'that were a riche gift.' 'and what,' quod she, 'of as mokel azure?' quod i, 'a precious gift at ful.' 'were not,' quod she, 'a noble gift of al these atones?' 'in good faith,' quod i, 'for wanting of englissh naming of so noble a worde, i can not, for preciousnesse, yeve it a name.' 'rightfully,' quod she, 'hast thou demed; and yet love, knit in vertue, passeth al the gold in this erthe. good wil, accordant to reson, with no maner propertè may be countrevayled. al the azure in the worlde is nat to accompte in respect of reson. love that with good wil and reson accordeth, with non erthly riches may nat ben amended. this yeft hast thou yeven, i know it my-selfe, and thy margarite thilke gift hath receyved; in whiche thinge to rewarde she hath her-selfe bounde. but thy gift, as i said, by no maner riches may be amended; wherfore, with thinge that may nat be amended, thou shalt of thy margarites rightwisenesse be rewarded. right suffred yet never but every good dede somtyme to be yolde. al wolde thy margarite with no rewarde thee quyte, right, that never-more dyeth, thy mede in merit wol purvey. certes, such sodayn blisse as thou first nempnest, right wil hem rewarde as thee wel is worthy; and though at thyn eye it semeth, the reward the desert to passe, right can after sende suche bitternesse, evenly it to rewarde. so that sodayn blisse, by al wayes of reson, in gret goodnesse may not ben acompted; but blisse long, both long it abydeth, and endlesse it wol laste. see why thy wil is endelesse. for if thou lovedest ever, thy wil is ever ther t'abyde and neveremore to chaunge; evenhed of rewarde must ben don by right; than muste nedes thy grace and this blisse [ben] endelesse in joye to +onbyde. evenliche disese asketh evenliche joye, whiche hastely thou shalt have.' 'a!' quod i, 'it suffyseth not than alone good wil, be it never so wel with reson medled, but-if it be in good service longe travayled. and so through service shul men come to the joye; and this, me thinketh, shulde be the wexing tree, of which ye first meved.* ch. v. . fre. . greatnesse. . ioy. * _a break here in_ th. . nowe. . meane. . the. . fruite. . al thoughe. . the. . somdele. . great. wethers; _read_ weders. . hert. . displeased. nowe. . to-forne. hert great plentie. . thynge. . vndone. . disease. . thorowe. . _i supply_ maner. . catcheth. . venyme. . trust. meane. . owen; _read_ oweth. . eased. . diseased. . reason. . one. sprong. . anone. one. . appetite. thiderwarde. . vnbyde; _read_ onbyde. . kydde. . kynde; _read_ kyndes. . ferre. . great. . this; _read_ his. . see warde. . course. . be; _read_ by. . kynde; _read_ kyndes. . sayde. - . hert. . _i supply_ is. vnbyde; _read_ onbyde. . maye. leaue. . drinke. . howe. se. daye. . reason. none. . thynge howe. . seasons. . forthe. . leaue. . they were nought; _omit_ were. . soone. . forthe. . norisshen; _read_ norisshinge. - . great (_twice_). . it; _read_ yit; _see_ l. . seede toforne. spring. . forthe. parfyte. meanynge. . great. . seede. . _i supply_ in. - . thre (_twice_). . peerles. - . gifte (_thrice_). . haste. knytte. . golde. . reason. . respecte. - . reason (_twice_). . gifte. . the. . sodayne. . the. . rewarde. . sodayne. reason. . last. se. . tabyde. . _i supply_ ben. ioy. vnbyde (!). . ioy. . tre. * _a break here in_ th. chapter vi. now, lady,' quod i, 'that tree to sette, fayn wolde i lerne.' 'so thou shalt,' quod she, 'er thou depart hence. the first thing, thou muste sette thy werke on grounde siker and good, accordaunt to thy springes. for if thou desyre grapes, thou goest not to the hasel; ne, for to fecchen roses, thou sekest not on okes; and if thou shalt have hony-soukels, thou levest the frute of the soure docke. wherfore, if thou desyre this blisse in parfit joye, thou must sette thy purpos there vertue foloweth, and not to loke after the bodily goodes; as i sayd whan thou were wryting in thy seconde boke. and for thou hast set thy-selfe in so noble a place, and utterly lowed in thyn herte the misgoing of thy first purpos, this +setling is the esier to springe, and the more lighter thy soule in grace to be lissed. and trewly thy desyr, that is to say, thy wil algates mot ben stedfast in this mater without any chaunginge; for if it be stedfast, no man may it voyde.' 'yes, pardè,' quod i, 'my wil may ben turned by frendes, and disese of manace and thretning in lesinge of my lyfe and of my limmes, and in many other wyse that now cometh not to mynde. and also it mot ofte ben out of thought; for no remembraunce may holde oon thing continuelly in herte, be it never so lusty desyred.' 'now see,' quod she, 'thou thy wil shal folowe, thy free wil to be grounded continuelly to abyde. it is thy free wil, that thou lovest and hast loved, and yet shal loven this margaryte-perle; and in thy wil thou thinkest to holde it. than is thy wil knit in love, not to chaunge for no newe lust besyde; this wil techeth thyn herte from al maner varying. but than, although thou be thretened in dethe or els in otherwyse, yet is it in thyn arbitrement to chose, thy love to voyde or els to holde; and thilke arbitrement is in a maner a jugement bytwene desyr and thy herte. and if thou deme to love thy good wil fayleth, than art thou worthy no blisse that good wil shulde deserve; and if thou chose continuaunce in thy good service, than thy good wil abydeth; nedes, blisse folowing of thy good wil must come by strength of thilke jugement; for thy first wil, that taught thyn herte to abyde, and halt it from th'eschaunge, with thy reson is accorded. trewly, this maner of wil thus shal abyde; impossible it were to turne, if thy herte be trewe; and if every man diligently the meninges of his wil consider, he shal wel understande that good wil, knit with reson, but in a false herte never is voyded; for power and might of keping this good wil is thorow libertè of arbitrement in herte, but good wil to kepe may not fayle. eke than if it fayle, it sheweth it-selfe that good wil in keping is not there. and thus false wil, that putteth out the good, anon constrayneth the herte to accorde in lovinge of thy good wil; and this accordaunce bitwene false wil and thyn herte, in falsitè ben lykened +togider. yet a litel wol i say thee in good wil, thy good willes to rayse and strengthe. tak hede to me (quod she) how thy willes thou shalt understande. right as ye han in your body dyvers membres, and fyve sondrye wittes, everiche apart to his owne doing, whiche thinges as instrumentes ye usen; as, your handes apart to handle; feet, to go; tonge, to speke; eye, to see: right so the soule hath in him certayne steringes and strengthes, whiche he useth as instrumentes to his certayne doinges. reson is in the soule, which he useth, thinges to knowe and to prove; and wil, whiche he useth to wilne; and yet is neyther wil ne reson al the soule; but everich of hem is a thing by him-selfe in the soule. and right as everich hath thus singuler instrumentes by hemselfe, they han as wel dyvers aptes and dyvers maner usinges; and thilke aptes mowen in wil ben cleped affeccions. affeccion is an instrument of willinge in his apetytes. wherfore mokel folk sayn, if a resonable creatures soule any thing fervently wilneth, affectuously he wilneth; and thus may wil, by terme of equivocas, in three wayes ben understande. oon is instrument of willing; another is affection of this instrument; and the third is use, that setteth it a-werke. instrument of willing is thilke strength of the soule, which that constrayneth to wilne, right as reson is instrument of resons, which ye usen whan ye loken. affeccion of this instrument is a thing, by whiche ye be drawe desyrously any-thing to wilne in coveitous maner, al be it for the tyme out of your mynde; as, if it come in your thought thilke thing to remembre, anon ye ben willing thilke to done or els to have. and thus is instrument wil; and affeccion is wil also, to wilne thing as i said; as, for to wilne helth, whan wil nothing theron thinketh; for anon as it cometh to memorie, it is in wil. and so is affeccion to wilne slepe, whan it is out of mynde; but anon as it is remembred, wil wilneth slepe, whan his tyme cometh of the doinge. for affeccion of wil never accordeth to sicknesse, ne alway to wake. right so, in a true lovers affeccion of willing, instrument is to wilne tr[o]uthe in his service; and this affeccion alway abydeth, although he be sleping or thretned, or els not theron thinking; but anon as it cometh to mynde, anon he is stedfast in that wil to abyde. use of this instrument forsothe is another thing by himselfe; and that have ye not but whan ye be doing in willed thing, by affect or instrument of wil purposed or desyred; and this maner of usage in my service wysely nedeth to be ruled from wayters with envy closed, from spekers ful of jangeling wordes, from proude folk and hautayn, that lambes and innocentes bothe scornen and dispysen. thus in doing varieth the actes of willinge everich from other, and yet ben they cleped "wil," and the name of wil utterly owen they to have; as instrument of wil is wil, whan ye turne in-to purpos of any thing to don, be it to sitte or to stande, or any such thing els. this instrument may ben had, although affect and usage be left out of doing; right as ye have sight and reson, and yet alway use ye* +nat to loke, [ne] thinges with resonning to prove; and so is instrument of wil, wil; and yet varyeth he from effect and using bothe. affeccion of wil also for wil is cleped, but it varyeth from instrument in this maner wyse, by that nameliche, whan it cometh in-to mynde, anon-right it is in willinge desyred, and the negatif therof with willing nil not acorde; this is closed in herte, though usage and instrument slepe. this slepeth whan instrument and us[e] waken; and of suche maner affeccion, trewly, some man hath more and some man lesse. certes, trewe lovers wenen ever therof to litel to have. false lovers in litel wenen have right mokel. lo, instrument of wil in false and trewe bothe, evenliche is proporcioned; but affeccion is more in some places than in some, bycause of the goodnesse that foloweth, and that i thinke hereafter to declare. use of this instrument is wil, but it taketh his name whan wilned thing is in doing; but utterly grace to cacche in thy blisse +desyreth to ben rewarded. thou most have than affeccion of wil at the ful, and use whan his tyme asketh wysely to ben governed. sothly, my disciple, without fervent affeccion of wil may no man ben saved. this affeccion of good service in good love may not ben grounded, without fervent desyr to the thing in wil coveited. but he that never reccheth to have or not to have, affeccion of wil in that hath no resting-place. why? for whan thing cometh to mynde, and it be not taken in hede to comin or not come, therfore in that place affeccion fayleth; and, for thilke affeccion is so litel, thorow whiche in goodnesse he shulde come to his grace, the litelnesse wil it not suffre to avayle by no way in-to his helpes. certes, grace and reson thilke affeccion foloweth. this affeccion, with reson knit, dureth in everiche trewe herte, and evermore is encresing; no ferdnesse, no strength may it remove, whyle tr[o]uthe in herte abydeth. sothly, whan falsheed ginneth entre, tr[o]uthe draweth away grace and joye bothe; but than thilke falsheed, that trouth[e] hath thus voyded, hath unknit the bond of understanding reson bytwene wil and the herte. and who-so that bond undoth, and unknitteth wil to be in other purpose than to the first accorde, knitteth him with contrarye of reson; and that is unreson. lo, than, wil and unreson bringeth a man from the blisse of grace; whiche thing, of pure kynde, every man ought to shonne and to eschewe, and to the knot of wil and reson confirme. me thinketh,' quod she, 'by thy studient lokes, thou wenest in these wordes me to contrarien from other sayinges here-toforn in other place, as whan thou were somtyme in affeccion of wil to thinges that now han brought thee in disese, which i have thee consayled to voyde, and thyn herte discover; and there i made thy wil to ben chaunged, whiche now thou wenest i argue to with[h]olde and to kepe! shortly i say, the revers in these wordes may not ben founde; for though dronkennesse be forboden, men shul not alway ben drinklesse. i trowe right, for thou thy wil out of reson shulde not tourne, thy wil in one reson shulde not +onbyde. i say, thy wil in thy first purpos with unreson was closed; constrewe forth of the remenant what thee good lyketh. trewly, that wil and reson shulde be knit togider, was free wil of reson; after tyme thyne herte is assentaunt to them bothe, thou might not chaunge. but if thou from rule of reson varye, in whiche variaunce to come to thilke blisse desyred, contrariously thou werchest; and nothing may knowe wil and reson but love alone. than if thou voide love, than +weyvest [thou] the bond that knitteth; and so nedes, or els right lightly, that other gon a-sondre; wherfore thou seest apertly that love holdeth this knot, and amaystreth hem to be bounde. these thinges, as a ring in circuit of wrethe, ben knit in thy soule without departing.' 'a! let be! let be!' quod i; 'it nedeth not of this no rehersayle to make; my soule is yet in parfit blisse, in thinking of that knotte!'* ch. vi. . nowe. set fayne. . set. . fetchen. . leauest. . parfite ioy. set. purpose. . booke. haste. . purpose. setteles; _read_ setling. . desyre. . mote. - . maye (_twice_). . disease. . nowe. . mote. . one. . nowe se. , . frewyl (_twice_). . haste. . teacheth. . varyeng. . desyre. . arte. . halte. . hert. . reason. . thorowe. hert. . anone. . togyther. . the. strength. take. . howe. - . aparte (_twice_). . fete. . se. . reason. . reason. . affections. affection. . folke. . thre. one. . reason. . affection. . affection. . thynge. - . affection (_four times_). . affecte. . purpose. . syt. . * _a break here in_ th. ne ought; _read_ nat. _i supply_ ne. . effecte. . affection. . name lyche. . negatyfe. . thoughe. . vs. - . affection (_twice_). . catche. desyred; _read_ desyreth. . muste. affection (_often_). . desyre. . retcheth. . comyn. - . reason (_twice_). . knytte. . encreasyng. maye. . ioy. both. . bonde. - . reason. . bonde vndothe. . unreason (_twice_). . reason. . sayenges. toforne. . affection. . nowe. the. disease. the. . reason (_twice_). . vnbyde; _read_ onbyde. purpose. . unreason. remenante. the. . fre. - . reason (_thrice_). . weuest; _read_ weyvest thou. . bonde. . gone. . ringe. . parfyte. * _a break here in_ th. chapter vii. 'very trouth,' quod she, 'hast thou now conceyved of these thinges in thyne herte; hastely shalt thou be able very joye and parfit blisse to receyve; and now, i wot wel, thou desyrest to knowe the maner of braunches that out of the tree shulde springe.' 'therof, lady,' quod i, 'hertely i you pray; for than leve i +wel, that right sone after i shal ataste of the frute that i so long have desyred.' 'thou hast herd,' quod she, 'in what wyse this tree toforn this have i declared, as in grounde and in stocke of wexing. first, the ground shulde be thy free wil, ful in thyne herte; and the stocke (as i sayde) shulde be continuaunce in good service by long tyme in traveyle, til it were in greetnesse right wel woxen. and whan this tree suche greetnesse hath caught as i have rehersed, the braunches than, that the frute shulde forth-bringe, speche must they be nedes, in voice of prayer in complayning wyse used.' 'out! alas!' quod i tho, 'he is soroufully wounded that hydeth his speche, and spareth his complayntes to make! what shal i speke the care? but payne, even lyk to helle, sore hath me assayled, and so ferforth in payne me thronge, that i leve my tree is seer, and never shal it frute forth bringe! certes, he is greetly esed, that dare his prevy mone discover to a true felowe, that conning hath and might, wherthrough his pleint in any thinge may ben amended. and mokel more is he joyed, that with herte of hardinesse dare complayne to his lady what cares that he suffreth, by hope of mercy with grace to be avaunced. truely i saye for me, sithe i cam this margarit to serve, durst i never me discover of no maner disese; and wel the later hath myn herte hardyed suche thinges to done, for the grete bountees and worthy refresshmentes that she of her grace goodly, without any desert on my halve, ofte hath me rekened. and nere her goodnesse the more with grace and with mercy medled, which passen al desertes, traveyls, and servinges that i in any degre might endite, i wolde wene i shulde be without recover, in getting of this blisse for ever! thus have i stilled my disese; thus have i covered my care; that i brenne in sorouful anoy, as gledes and coles wasten a fyr under deed asshen. wel the hoter is the fyr that with asshen it is overleyn. right longe this wo have i suffred.' 'lo,' quod love, 'how thou farest! me thinketh, the palasy-yvel hath acomered thy wittes; as faste as thou hyest forward, anon sodaynly backward thou movest! shal nat yet al thy leudnesse out of thy braynes? dul ben thy skilful understandinges; thy wil hath thy wit so amaistred. wost thou nat wel (quod she) but every tree, in his sesonable tyme of burjoninge, shewe his blomes fro within, in signe of what frute shulde out of him springe, els the frute for that yere men halt delivered, be the ground never so good? and though the stocke be mighty at the ful, and the braunches seer, and no burjons shewe, farwel the gardiner! he may pype with an yvè-lefe; his frute is fayled. wherfore thy braunches must burjonen in presence of thy lady, if thou desyre any frute of thy ladies grace. but beware of thy lyfe, that thou no wode lay use, as in asking of thinges that strecchen in-to shame! for than might thou nat spede, by no maner way that i can espy. vertue wol nat suffre villany out of him-selfe to springe. thy wordes may nat be queynt, ne of subtel maner understandinge. freel-witted people supposen in suche poesies to be begyled; in open understandinge must every word be used. "voice without clere understanding of sentence," saith aristotel, "right nought printeth in herte." thy wordes than to abyde in herte, and clene in ful sentence of trewe mening, platly must thou shewe; and ever be obedient, her hestes and her wils to performe; and be thou set in suche a wit, to wete by a loke ever-more what she meneth. and he that list nat to speke, but stilly his disese suffer, what wonder is it, tho[ugh] he come never to his blisse? who that traveyleth unwist, and coveyteth thing unknowe, unweting he shal be quyted, and with unknowe thing rewarded.' 'good lady,' quod i than, 'it hath ofte be sene, that +weders and stormes so hugely have falle in burjoning-tyme, and by perte duresse han beten of the springes so clene, wherthrough the frute of thilke yere hath fayled. it is a greet grace, whan burjons han good +weders, their frutes forth to bringe. alas! than, after suche stormes, how hard is it to avoyde, til efte wedring and yeres han maked her circute cours al about, er any frute be able to be tasted! he is shent for shame, that foule is rebuked of his speche. he that is in fyre brenning sore smarteth for disese; him thinketh ful long er the water come, that shulde the fyr quenche. while men gon after a leche, the body is buryed. lo! how semely this frute wexeth! me thinketh, that of tho frutes may no man ataste, for pure bitternesse in savour. in this wyse bothe frute and the tree wasten away togider, though mokel besy occupacion have be spent, to bringe it so ferforth that it was able to springe. a lyte speche hath maked that al this labour is in ydel.' 'i not,' quod she, 'wherof it serveth, thy question to assoyle. me thinketh thee now duller in wittes than whan i with thee first mette. although a man be leude, commenly for a fole he is nat demed but-if he no good wol lerne. sottes and foles lete lightly out of mynde the good that men techeth hem. i sayd therfore, thy stocke must be stronge, and in greetnesse wel herted: the tree is ful feble that at the firste dent falleth. and although frute fayleth oon yere or two, yet shal suche a seson come oon tyme or other, that shal bringe out frute that [is parfit]. *fole, have i not seyd toforn this, as tyme hurteth, right so ayenward tyme heleth and rewardeth; and a tree oft fayled is holde more in deyntee whan it frute forth bringeth. a marchaunt that for ones lesinge in the see no more to aventure thinketh, he shal never with aventure come to richesse. so ofte must men on the oke smyte, til the happy dent have entred, whiche with the okes owne swaye maketh it to come al at ones. so ofte falleth the lethy water on the harde rocke, til it have thorow persed it. the even draught of the wyr-drawer maketh the wyr to ben even and supple-werchinge; and if he stinted in his draught, the wyr breketh a-sonder. every tree wel springeth, whan it is wel grounded and not often removed.' 'what shal this frute be,' quod i, 'now it ginneth rype?' 'grace,' quod she, 'in parfit joy to endure; and therwith thou begon[ne].' 'grace?' quod i; 'me thinketh, i shulde have a reward for my longe travayle?' 'i shal telle thee,' quod she; 'retribucion of thy good willes to have of thy margarite-perle, it bereth not the name of mede, but only of good grace; and that cometh not of thy desert, but of thy margarytes goodnesse and vertue alone.' quod i, 'shulde al my longe travayle have no reward but thorow grace? and som-tyme your-selven sayd, rightwisnesse evenliche rewardeth, to quyte oon benefit for another.' 'that is sothe,' quod love, 'ever as i sayde, as to him that doth good, which to done he were neyther holden ne yet constrayned.' 'that is sothe,' quod i. 'trewly,' quod she, 'al that ever thou doest to thyne margaryte-perle, of wil, of love, and of reson thou owest to done it; it is nothing els but yelding of thy dette in quytinge of thy grace, which she thee lente whan ye first mette.' 'i wene,' quod i, 'right litel grace to me she delivered. certes, it was harde grace; it hath nyghe me astrangled.' 'that it was good grace, i wot wel thou wilt it graunte, er thou departe hence. if any man yeve to another wight, to whom that he ought not, and whiche that of him-selfe nothing may have, a garnement or a cote, though he were the cote or els thilke clothing, it is not to putte to him that was naked the cause of his clothinge, but only to him that was yever of the garnement. wherfore i saye, thou that were naked of love, and of thy-selfe non have mightest, it is not to putte to thyne owne persone, sithen thy love cam thorow thy margaryte-perle. _ergo_, she was yever of the love, although thou it use; and there lente she thee grace, thy service to beginne. she is worthy the thank of this grace, for she was the yever. al the thoughtes, besy doinges, and plesaunce in thy might and in thy wordes that thou canst devyse, ben but right litel in quytinge of thy dette; had she not ben, suche thing hadde not ben studyed. so al these maters kyndly drawen hom-ward to this margaryte-perle, for from thence were they borowed; al is hoolly her to wyte, the love that thou havest; and thus quytest thou thy dette, in that thou stedfastly servest. and kepe wel that love, i thee rede, that of her thou hast borowed, and use it in her service thy dette to quyte; and than art thou able right sone to have grace; wherfore after mede in none halve mayst thou loke. thus thy ginning and ending is but grace aloon; and in thy good deserving thy dette thou aquytest; without grace is nothing worth, what-so-ever thou werche. thanke thy margaryte of her grete grace that +hiderto thee hath gyded, and praye her of continuaunce forth in thy werkes herafter; and that, for no mishappe, thy grace overthwartly tourne. grace, glorie, and joye is coming thorow good folkes desertes; and by getting of grace, therin shullen ende. and what is more glorie or more joye than wysdom and love in parfit charitè, whiche god hath graunted to al tho that wel +conne deserve?' and with that this lady al at ones sterte in-to my herte: 'here wol i onbyde,' quod she, 'for ever, and never wol i gon hence; and i wol kepe thee from medlinge while me liste here onbyde; thyne entermeting maners in-to stedfastnesse shullen be chaunged.' ch. vii. . nowe. . hert. . parfyte. nowe. . spring. . wol; _read_ wel. soone. atast. . herde. tre. . grounde. frewyl. hert. . greatnesse. . gretnesse. . lyke. hel. . tre. bring. . greatly eased. . came. . disease. . great bounties. . disease. . bren. . fyre (_twice_). . howe. . forwarde. . backwarde. . spring. halte. . grounde. . wodelay. stretchen. . spring. . worde. - . hert (_twice_). . meaneth. . disease. . wethers; _read_ weders. . fal. . beaten. . great. . wethers; _read_ weders. forthe. . howe harde. . disease. . fyre. . gone. . howe. . maye. sauoure. . occupation. spente. ferforthe. . spring. . the nowe. . fooles lette. . teacheth. . greatnesse. . one (_twice_). season. . _i supply_ is parfit. * _a break here in_ th. . healeth. . deyntie. . forthe. . thorowe. - . wyre (_thrice_). . breaketh. . tre. . nowe. . parfyte. . begon; _read_ begonne. . rewarde. . tel the. . beareth. . onely. deserte. . rewarde. thorowe. . one benefyte. . dothe. . _catchword_ it is; _misprinted_ yet is _on the next page_. . the lent. . lytle. . graunt. . nothynge maye. . weare. . put; _read_ putte. . onely. . put. . came thorowe. . althoughe. lent. the. . thanke. . canste. . homewarde. . holy. . the. . arte. . alone. . worthe. . great. hytherto; _read_ hiderto. . the. forthe. . thorowe. . wysdome. . parfyte. . canne; _read_ conne. . hert. chapter viii. soberliche tho threw i up myn eyen, and hugely tho was i astonyed of this sodayne adventure; and fayn wolde i have lerned, how vertues shulden ben knowen; in whiche thinges, i hope to god, here-after she shal me enfourmen; and namely, sithen her restinge-place is now so nygh at my wil; and anon al these thinges that this lady said, i remembred me by my-selfe, and revolved the +lynes of myne understondinge wittes. tho found i fully al these maters parfitly there written, how mis-rule by fayned love bothe realmes and citees hath governed a greet throwe; how lightly me might the fautes espye; how rules in love shulde ben used; how somtyme with fayned love foule i was begyled; how i shulde love have knowe; and how i shal in love with my service procede. also furthermore i found, of perdurable letters wonderly there graven, these maters whiche i shal nempne. certes, non age ne other thing in erthe may the leest sillable of this in no poynte deface, but clerely as the sonne in myne understandinge soule they shynen. this may never out of my mynde, how i may not my love kepe, but thorow willinge in herte; wilne to love may i not, but i lovinge have. love have i non, but thorow grace of this margarite-perle. it is no maner doute, that wil wol not love but for it is lovinge, as wil wol not rightfully but for it is rightful it-selve. also wil is not lovinge for he wol love; but he wol love for he is lovinge; it is al oon to +wilne to be lovinge, and lovinges in possession to have. right so wil wol not love, for of love hath he no partie. and yet i denye not lovinge wil [may] wilne more love to have, whiche that he hath not whan he wolde more than he hath; but i saye, he may no love wilne if he no love have, through which thilke love he shuld wilne. but to have this loving wil may no man of him-selfe, but only through grace toforn-going; right so may no man it kepe, but by grace folowinge. consider now every man aright, and let seen if that any wight of him-selfe mowe this loving wel gete, and he therof first nothing have; for if it shulde of him-selfe springe, either it muste be willing or not willing. willing by him-selfe may he it not have, sithen him fayleth the mater that shulde it forth bringe. the mater him fayleth; why? he may therof have no knowing til whan grace put it in his herte. thus willing by him-selfe may he it not have; and not willing, may he it not have. pardè, every conseyt of every resonable creature otherwyse wil [wol] not graunte; wil in affirmatif with not willing by no way mowe acorde. and although this loving wol come in myn herte by freenesse of arbitrement, as in this booke fully is shewed, yet owe i not therfore as moche alowe my free wil as grace of that margaryte to me lened. for neyther might i, without grace to-forn going and afterward folowing, thilke grace gete ne kepe; and lese shal i it never but-if free wil it make, as in willinge otherwyse than grace hath me graunted. for right as whan any person taketh willing to be sobre, and throweth that away, willing to be dronke; or els taketh wil of drinking out of mesure; whiche thing, anon as it is don, maketh (thorow his owne gilte by free wil) that [he] leseth his grace. in whiche thing therfore upon the nobley of grace i mote trusten, and my besy cure sette thilke grace to kepe, that my free wil, otherwyse than by reson it shulde werche, cause not my grace to voyde: for thus must i bothe loke to free wil and to grace. for right as naturel usage in engendring of children may not ben without +fader, ne also but with the +moder, for neyther +fader ne +moder in begetting may it lacke; right so grace and free wil accorden, and withoute hem bothe may not lovinge wil in no partie ben getten. but yet is not free wil in gettinge of that thing so mokel thank-worthy as is grace, ne in the kepinge therof so moche thank deserveth; and yet in gettinge and keping bothe don they accorde. trewly, often-tyme grace free wil helpeth, in fordoinge of contrarye thinges, that to willinge love not accorden, and +strengtheth wil adversitees to withsitte; wherfore +al-togider to grace oweth to ben accepted, that my willing deserveth. free wil to lovinge in this wyse is accorded. i remembre me wel how al this book (who-so hede taketh) considereth [how] al thinges to werchinges of mankynde evenly accordeth, as in turning of this worde 'love' in-to trouthe or els rightwisnesse, whether that it lyke. for what thing that falleth to man in helping of free arbitrement, thilke rightwisnesse to take or els to kepe, thorow whiche a man shal be saved (of whiche thing al this book mencion hath maked), in every poynte therof grace oweth to be thanked. wherfore i saye, every wight havinge this rightwisnesse rightful is; and yet therfore i fele not in my conscience, that to al rightful is behoten the blisse everlastinge, but to hem that ben rightful withouten any unrightfulnesse. some man after some degree may rightfully ben accompted as chaste men in living, and yet ben they janglers and ful of envy pressed; to hem shal this blisse never ben delivered. for right as very blisse is without al maner nede, right so to no man shal it be yeven but to the rightful, voyde from al maner unrightfulnesse founde; so no man to her blisse shal ben folowed, but he be rightful, and with unrightfulnesse not bounde, and in that degree fully be knowe. this rightfulnesse, in as moche as in him-selfe is, of none yvel is it cause; and of al maner goodnesse, trewly, it is +moder. this helpeth the spirit to withsitte the leude lustes of flesshly lykinge. this strengtheth and maintayneth the lawe of kynde; and if that otherwhyle me weneth harm of this precious thing to folowe, therthorough is [it] nothing the cause; of somwhat els cometh it aboute, who-so taketh hede. by rightfulnesse forsothe wern many holy sayntes good savour in swetenesse to god almighty; but that to some folkes they weren savour of dethe, in-to deedly ende, that com not of the sayntes rightwisnesse, but of other wicked mennes badnesse hath proceded. trewly, the ilke wil, whiche that the lady of love me lerned 'affeccion of wil' to nempne, which is in willing of profitable thinges, yvel is it not, but whan to flesshly lustes it consenteth ayenst reson of soule. but that this thing more clerely be understande, it is for to knowe, whence and how thilke wil is so vicious, and so redy yvel dedes to perfourme. grace at the ginninge ordeyned thilke wil in goodnesse ever to have endured, and never to badnesse have assented. men shulde not byleve, that god thilke wil maked to be vicious [in] our firste +faders, as adam and eve; for vicious appetytes, and vicious wil to suche appetytes consentinge, ben not on thing in kynde; other thing is don for the other. and how this wil first in-to man first assented, i holde it profitable to shewe; but if the first condicion of resonable creature wol be considred and apertly loked, lightly the cause of suche wil may be shewed. intencion of god was, that rightfully and blissed shulde resonable nature ben maked, himselfe for to kepe; but neyther blisful ne rightful might it not be, withouten wil in them bothe. wil of rightfulnesse is thilke same rightfulnesse, as here-to-forn is shewed; but wil of blisse is not thilke blisse, for every man hath not thilke blisse, in whom the wil therof is abydinge. in this blisse, after every understandinge, is suffisaunce of covenable comoditees without any maner nede, whether it be blisse of aungels or els thilke that grace first in paradise suffred adam to have. for al-though angels blisse be more than adams was in paradyse, yet may it not be +denyed, that adam in paradyse ne had suffisaunce of blisse; for right as greet herte is without al maner of coldenesse, and yet may another herte more hete have; right so nothing defended adam in paradyse to ben blessed, without al maner nede. al-though aungels blisse be moche more, forsothe, it foloweth not [that], lasse than another to have, therfore him nedeth; but for to wante a thing whiche that behoveth to ben had, that may 'nede' ben cleped; and that was not in adam at the first ginning. god and the margaryte weten what i mene. forsothe, where-as is nede, there is wrecchednesse. +god without cause to-forngoing made not resonable creature wrecched; for him to understande and love had he firste maked. god made therfore man blissed without al maner indigence; +togider and at ones took resonable creature blisse, and wil of blissednesse, and wil of rightfulnesse, whiche is rightfulnesse it-selve, and libertee of arbitrement, that is, free wil, with whiche thilke rightfulnesse may he kepe and lese. so and in that wyse [god] ordayned thilke two, that wil (whiche that "instrument" is cleped, as here-toforn mencion is maked) shulde use thilke rightfulnesse, by teching of his soule to good maner of governaunce, in thought and in wordes; and that it shulde use the blisse in obedient maner, withouten any incommoditè. blisse, forsothe, in-to mannes profit, and rightwisnesse in-to his worship god delivered at ones; but rightfulnesse so was yeven that man might it lese, whiche if he not lost had, but continuelly [might] have it kept, he shulde have deserved the avauncement in-to the felowshippe of angels, in whiche thing if he that loste, never by him-selfe forward shulde he it mowe ayenward recovere; and as wel the blisse that he was in, as aungels blisse that to-him-wardes was coming, shulde be nome at ones, and he deprived of hem bothe. and thus fil man un-to lykenesse of unresonable bestes; and with hem to corrupcion and unlusty apetytes was he under-throwen. but yet wil of blisse dwelleth, that by indigence of goodes, whiche that he loste through greet wrecchednesse, by right shulde he ben punisshed. and thus, for he weyved rightfulnesse, lost hath he his blisse; but fayle of his desyr in his owne comoditè may he not; and +where comodites to his resonable nature whiche he hath lost may he not have, to false lustes, whiche ben bestial appetytes, he is turned. folye of unconning hath him begyled, in wening that thilke ben the comoditees that owen to ben desyred. this affeccion of wil by libertè of arbitrement is enduced to wilne thus thing that he shulde not; and so is wil not maked yvel but unrightful, by absence of rightfulnesse, whiche thing by reson ever shulde he have. and freenesse of arbitrement may he not wilne, whan he it not haveth; for while he it had, thilke halp it not to kepe; so that without grace may it not ben recovered. wil of commoditè, in-as-moche as unrightful it is maked by willinge of yvel lustes, willing of goodnesse may he not wilne; for wil of instrument to affeccion of wil is thralled, sithen that other thing may it not wilne; for wil of instrument to affeccion desyreth, and yet ben bothe they 'wil' cleped. for that instrument wol, through affeccion it wilneth; and affeccion desyreth thilke thing wherto instrument him ledeth. and so free wil to unlusty affeccion ful servaunt is maked, for unrightfulnesse may he not releve; and without rightfulnesse ful fredom may it never have. for kyndly libertee of arbitrement without it, veyne and ydel is, forsothe. wherfore yet i say, (as often have i sayd the same), whan instrument of wil lost hath rightfulnesse, in no maner but by grace may he ayen retourne rightfulnesse to wilne. for sithen nothing but rightfulnesse alone shulde he wilne, what that ever he wilneth without rightfulnesse, unrightfully he it wilneth. these than unrightful appetytes and unthrifty lustes whiche the +flesh desyreth, in as mokel as they ben in kynde, ben they nat bad; but they ben unrightful and badde for they ben in resonable creature, where-as they being, in no waye shulde ben suffred. in unresonable beestes neyther ben they yvel ne unrightful; for there is their kynde being. ch. viii. . threwe. . fayne. . howe. . nowe. nyghe. . lyues (!). founde. . parfytely. howe. mysse-. . cyties. great. - . howe (_five times_). . founde. . none. thynge. maye. . maye. . howe. maye. thorowe. . maye. none. . thorowe. . one. wil; _read_ wilne. . _i supply_ may. . maye. . onely. . toforne. maye. . nowe. sene. . get. . nothynge. spring. . forthe bring. . maye. . reasonable. _i supply_ wol. . graunt. affyrmatife. . hert. frenesse. . frewyl (_throughout_). . leaned. . afterwarde. get; _read_ gete. . done. thorowe. _i supply_ he. . set. . reason. . maye. - . father (_twice_); _read_ fader. mother (_twice_); _read_ moder. - . maye. . thankeworthy. . thanke. . done. . strength; _read_ strengtheth; _see_ l. . al togyther. . howe. . booke. _supply_ how. . thorowe. . booke. . maye. . mother; _read_ moder. . harme. _supply_ it. . nothynge. . werne. . come; _read_ com. . affectyon. . reason. thynge. . vndersta_n_d. howe. . redye. . vycious. _i insert_ in; our (_sic_). . father; _read_ faders. . done. howe. - . reasonable (_twice_). . -forne. , . maye. . denyded (!). . great. . heate. nothynge. . thoughe. . _i supply_ that. . thynge. maye. . meane. . wretchydnesse. good; _read_ god. . reasonable. wretched. . togyther. . toke reasonable. . lybertie. . fre. . _i supply_ god. . cleaped. toforne. . teachyng. . profyte. . not loste had not; _i omit second_ not. . _i supply_ might. kepte. . forwarde. . ayenwarde. . vnreasonable. . great wretchydnesse. . loste. . desyre. were; _read_ where. . reasonable. loste. . affection. . reason. . frenesse. . halpe. - . affection (_thrice_). . frewyl. affection. . maye. . fredome. libertie. . loste. . flyes (!); _read_ flesh. . vnreasonable. chapter ix. knowen may it wel ben now of these thinges toforn declared, that man hath not alway thilke rightfulnesse which by dutè of right evermore haven he shulde, and by no way by him-selfe may he it gete ne kepe; and after he it hath, if he it lese, recover shal he it never without especial grace. wherfore the comune sentence of the people in opinion, that every thing after destenee is ruled, false and wicked is to beleve. for though predestinacion be as wel of good as of badde, sithen that it is sayd, god +hath destenees made, whiche he never ne wrought; but, for he suffreth hem to be maked, as that he hardeth, whan he naught missayth, or +let in-to temptacion, whan he not delivereth: wherfore it is non inconvenient if in that maner be sayd, god toforn have destenyed bothe badde and her badde werkes, whan hem ne their yvel dedes [he] neyther amendeth ne therto hem grace +leneth. but specialliche, predestinacion of goodnesse alone is sayd by these grete clerkes; for in him god doth that they ben, and that in goodnesse they werchen. but the negatif herof in badnesse is holden, as the lady of love hath me lerned, who-so aright in this booke loketh. and utterly it is to weten, that predestinacion properly in god may not ben demed, no more than beforn-weting. for in the chapitre of goddes beforn-weting, as love me rehersed, al these maters apertly may ben founden. al thinges to god ben now +togider and in presence duringe. trewly, presence and predestinacion in nothing disacorden; wherfore, as i was lerned how goddes before-weting and free choice of wil mowe stonden +togider, me thinketh the same reson me ledeth, that destenye and free wil accorden, so that neyther of hem bothe to other in nothing contrarieth. and resonabliche may it not ben demed, as often as any thing falleth [thorow] free wil werching (as if a man another man wrongfully anoyeth, wherfore he him sleeth), that it be constrayned to that ende, as mokel folk cryeth and sayth: 'lo, as it was destenyed of god toforn knowe, so it is thorow necessitè falle, and otherwyse might it not betyde.' trewly, neyther he that the wrong wrought, ne he that him-selfe venged, none of thilke thinges thorow necessitè wrought; for if that [oon] with free wil there had it not willed, neyther had [he] wrought that he perfourmed; and so utterly grace, that free wil in goodnesse bringeth and kepeth, and fro badnesse it tourneth, in al thinge moste thank deserveth. this grace maketh sentence in vertue to abyde, wherfore in body and in soule, in ful plentee of conninge, after their good deserving in the everlastinge joye, after the day of dome shul they endelesse dwelle; and they shul ben lerned in that kingdom with so mokel affect of love and of grace, that the leste joye shal of the gretest in glorie rejoice and ben gladded, as if he the same joye had. what wonder, sith god is the gretest love and the *gretest wisdom? in hem shal he be, and they in god. now than, whan al false folk be ashamed, which wenen al bestialtè and erthly thing be sweter and better to the body than hevenly is to the soule; this is the grace and the frute that i long have desyred; it doth me good the savour to smelle. crist, now to thee i crye of mercy and of grace; and graunt, of thy goodnes, to every maner reder ful understanding in this leude pamflet to have; and let no man wene other cause in this werke than is verily the soth. for envy is ever redy, al innocentes to shende; wherfore i wolde that good speche envy evermore hinder. but no man wene this werke be sufficiently maked; for goddes werke passeth man[ne]s; no man[ne]s wit to parfit werke may by no way purvay th'ende. how shuld i than, so leude, aught wene of perfeccion any ende to gete? never-the-later, grace, glorie, and laude i yelde and putte with worshipful reverences to the sothfast god, in three with unitè closed, whiche that the hevy langour of my sicknesse hath turned in-to mirthe of helth to recover. for right as i was sorowed thorow the gloton cloud of manifolde sickly sorow, so mirth [of] ayencoming helth hath me glad[d]ed and gretly comforted. i beseche and pray therfore, and i crye on goddes gret pitè and on his mokel mercy, that this[e] present scorges of my flessh mow maken medecyne and lechecraft of my inner man[ne]s helth; so that my passed trespas and tenes through weping of myn eyen ben wasshe, and i, voyded from al maner disese, and no more to wepe herafter, y-now be kept thorow goddes grace; so that goddes hand, whiche that merciably me hath scorged, herafter in good plite from thence merciably me kepe and defende. in this boke be many privy thinges wimpled and folde; unneth shul leude men the plites unwinde. wherfore i pray to the holy gost, he lene of his oyntmentes, mennes wittes to clere; and, for goddes love, no man wonder why or how this question come to my mynde. for my greet lusty desyr was of this lady to ben enfourmed, my leudenesse to amende. certes, i knowe not other mennes wittes, what i shulde aske, or in answere what i shulde saye; i am so leude my-selfe, that mokel more lerninge yet me behoveth. i have mad therfore as i coude, but not sufficiently as i wolde, and as mater yave me sentence; for my dul wit is hindred by +stepmoder of foryeting and with cloude of unconning, that stoppeth the light of my margarite-perle, wherfore it may not shyne on me as it shulde. i desyre not only a good reder, but also i coveite and pray a good book-amender, in correccion of wordes and of sentence; and only this mede i coveite for my travayle, that every inseër and herer of this leude fantasye devoute horisons and prayers to god the greet juge yelden; and prayen for me in that wyse, that in his dome my sinnes mowe ben relesed and foryeven. he that prayeth for other for him-selfe travayleth. also i praye, that every man parfitly mowe knowe thorow what intencion of herte this tretys have i drawe. how was it, that sightful manna in deserte to children of israel was spirituel mete? bodily also it was, for mennes bodies it +norisshed; and yet, never-the-later, crist it signifyed. right so a jewel betokeneth a gemme, and that is a stoon vertuous or els a perle. margarite, a woman, betokeneth grace, lerning, or wisdom of god, or els holy church. if breed, thorow vertue, is mad holy flesshe, what is that our god sayth? 'it is the spirit that yeveth lyf; the flesshe, of nothing it profiteth.' flesshe is flesshly understandinge; flessh without grace and love naught is worth. 'the letter sleeth; the spirit yeveth lyfelich understanding.' charitè is love; and love is charitè. god graunt us al[le] therin to be frended! and thus the testament of love is ended. ch. ix. . nowe. toforne. . get. . destenye. thoughe. . sayde. god hadnest (!); _read_ god hath destenees. . missaythe. ledde; _read_ let = ledeth. . none. toforne. . _i supply_ he. . leueth. . sayde. great. dothe. . negatyfe. . beforne (_twice_). . apertely maye. . nowe to-gyther. . nothynge. . howe. . togyther. reason. . leadeth. frewyl. . reasonablyche. . demyd. _i supply_ thorow. frewyl. . folke. toforne know. . thorowe. fal. . wronge. . thorowe. - . _i supply_ oon _and_ he. . thanke. . plentie. . ioy. dwel. . kyngdome. affecte. - . greatest (_twice_). * _a break here in_ th. . folke. . swetter. . dothe. . smel. . christ. the. . mans; _read_ mannes (_twice_). . get. . put. . thre. . _i supply_ of. . this; _read_ thise. . medecyn. lechcraft. . mans. . i now; _for_ y-now. . thorowe. ha_n_de. . great. desyre. . made. . wytte. -mother; _read_ moder. . onely. booke. . correction. onely. . great. . released. . thorowe. . treatyse. howe. . meate. norissheth; _read_ norisshed. . christ. . stone. . thorowe. made. . saythe. spyrite. . lyfe. . al; _read_ allë. * * * * * ii. the plowmans tale. here beginneth the plowmans prologue. the plowman plucked up his plow, whan midsommer mone was comen in, and sayd, 'his beestes shuld ete y-now, and lig in the grasse, up to the chin; they ben feble, both oxe and cow, of hem nis left but boon and skin.' he shook of share, and cultre of-drow, and hong his harneys on a pin. he took his tabard and his staf eke, and on his heed he set his hat; and sayde, he wolde saynt thomas seke, on pilgrimage he goth forth plat. in scrippe he bar both breed and lekes, he was forswonke and all forswat; men might have seen through both his chekes, and every wang-toth and where it sat. our hoste beheld wel all about, and saw this man was sunne y-brent; he knew well by his senged snout, and by his clothes that were to-rent, he was a man wont to walke about, he nas nat alway in cloystre y-pent; he coud not religiousliche lout, and therfore was he fully shent. our host him axed, 'what man art thou?' 'sir,' quod he, 'i am an hyne; for i am wont to go to the plow, and erne my mete yer that i dyne. to swete and swinke i make avow, my wyf and children therwith to fynd, and servë god, and i wist how; but we lewd men ben full[y] blynd. for clerkes saye, we shullen be fayn for hir lyvelod [to] swete and swinke, and they right nought us give agayn, neyther to ete ne yet to drinke. they mowe by lawë, as they sayn, us curse and dampne to hell[e] brinke; thus they putten us to payn, with candles queynt and belles clinke. they make us thralles at hir lust, and sayn, we mowe nat els be saved; they have the corn and we the dust, who speketh ther-agayn, they say he raved.' 'what, man,' quod our host, 'canst thou preche? come neer, and tell us some holy thing.' 'sir,' quod he, 'i herde ones teche a prest in pulpit a good preching.' 'say on,' quod our host, 'i thee beseche.' 'sir, i am redy at your bidding. i pray you that no man me reproche whyl that i am my tale telling. thus endeth the prologue, and here foloweth the first part of the tale. part i. a sternë stryf is stered newe in many stedes in a stounde, of sondry sedes that ben sewe; it semeth that som ben unsounde. for some be gretë growen +on grounde, some ben souple, simple and small; whether of hem is falser founde, the falser, foul mote him befall! that oon syde is, that i of tell, popes, cardinals, and prelates, parsons, monkes, and freres fell, priours, abbottes of grete estates; of heven and hell they kepe the yates, and peters successours they ben all; this is demed by oldë dates; but falshed, foul mote it befall! the other syde ben poore and pale, and people put [al] out of prees; and semë caytifs sore a-cale, and ever in oon without encrees, +i-cleped lollers and londlees; who toteth on hem, they been untall. they ben arayed all for the pees; but falshed, foul mote it befall! many a countrey have i sought, to know the falser of these two; but ever my travail was for nought, all so fer as i have go. but as i wandred in a wro, in a wode besyde a wall, two foules saw i sitte tho; the falser, foul mote him befall! that oon did plede on the popes syde, a griffon of a grim stature. a pellicane withouten pryde to these lollers layde his lure; he mused his matter in mesure, to counsayl christ ever gan he call. the griffon shewed as sharp as fyre, but falshed, foul mote it befall! the pellican began to preche both of mercy and of mekeness; and sayd, that "christ so gan us teche, and meke and merciable gan bless. the evangely bereth witness a lamb, he lykneth christ over-all, in tokening that he mekest was, sith pryde was out of heven fall. and so shulde every christned be; preestes, peters successours, beth lowlich and of low degree, and usen none erthly honours, neyther crown, ne curious cove[r]tours, ne +pelure, ne other proudë pall; ne nought to cofren up greet tresours; for falshed, foul mote it befall! preest[e]s shuld for no cattel plede, but chasten hem in charitè; ne to no batail shuld men lede for inhaunsing of hir own degree; nat wilnë sittings in hy see, ne soverayntè in hous ne hall; all worldly worship defye and flee; for who willeth highnes, foul shal fall! alas! who may such sayntes call that wilneth welde erthly honour? as lowe as lucifer such shal fall, in baleful blacknesse y-builde hir bour; that eggeth the people to errour, and maketh hem to hem [be] thrall; to christ i hold suche oon traytour, as lowe as lucifer such shal fall. that willeth to be kinges peres, and hygher than the emperour; some that were but pore freres now wollen waxe a warryour. god is nat hir governour, that holdeth no man his +peragall; whyl covetyse is hir counsaylour, all such falshed mot nedë fall. that hye on horse willeth ryde in glitterand golde of grete aray, i-paynted and portred all in pryde; no commun knight may go so gay. chaunge of clothing every day, with golden girdles grete and small; as boystous as is bere at bay; all such falshed mot nedë fall. with prydë +punysheth the pore, and somë they sustayn with sale; of holy churche maketh an hore, and filleth hir wombe with wyne and ale; with money filleth many a male, and chaffren churches when they fall, and telleth the people a lewed tale; such falsë faytours, foul hem fall! with chaunge of many maner metes, with song and solace sitting long, and filleth hir wombë, and fast fretes, and from the metë to the gong; and after mete with harp and song, and ech man mot hem lordes call; and hotë spyces ever among; such falsë faytours, foul hem fall! and myters mo than oon or two, i-perled as the quenes heed; a staf of golde, and +perrey, lo! as hevy as it were mad of leed; with cloth of gold both newe and reed, with glitterand +gown as grene as gall, by dome will dampnë men to deed; all suche faytours, foul hem fall! and christes people proudly curse with brode bokes, and braying bell; to putte pennyes in hir purse they woll sell both heven and hell; and in hir sentence, and thou wilt dwell, they willen gesse in hir gay hall; and though the soth thou of hem tell, in greet cursinge shalt thou fall. that is blessed, that they blesse, and cursed, that they cursë woll; and thus the people they oppresse, and have their lordshippes at full; and many be marchauntes of woll, and to purse penyes woll come thrall; the porë people they all to-pull, such falsë faytours, foul hem fall! lordes motë to hem loute, obeysaunt to hir brode blessing; they ryden with hir royall route on a courser, as it were a king; with saddle of golde glitt[e]ring with curious harneys quayntly crallit, styroppes gaye of gold-mastling; all suche falshed, foul befall it! christes ministers +cleped they been, and rulen all in robberye; but antichrist they serven clene, attyred all in tyrannye; witnesse of johns prophecye, that antichrist is hir admirall, tiffelers attyred in trecherye; all suche faytours, foul hem fall! who sayth, that some of hem may sinne, he shal be +demed to be deed; some of hem woll gladly winne all ayenst that which god forbed; "all-holyest" they clepen hir heed, that of hir rulë is regall; alas! that ever they eten breed; for all such falshed woll foul fall. hir heed loveth all honour, and to be worshipped in worde and dede; kinges mot to hem knele and coure; to the apostles, that christ forbede; to popes hestes such taketh more hede than to kepe christes commaundëment; of gold and silver mot ben hir wede, they holdeth him hole omnipotent. he ordayneth by his ordinaunce to parish-preestes a powére; to another a greter avaunce, a greter poynt to his mystere; but for he is hyghest in erth here, to him reserveth he many a poynt; but to christ, that hath no pere, reserveth he neither opin ne joynt. so semeth he above[n] all, and christ aboven him nothing; whan he sitteth in his stall, dampneth and saveth as him think. such pryde tofore god doth stink; an angell bad john to him nat knele, but only to god do his bowing; such willers of worship must evil fele. they ne clepen christ but _sanctus deus_, and clepen her heed _sanctissimus_; they that such a sect[ë] sewis, i trowe, they taken hem amisse. in erth[ë] here they have hir blisse, hir hye master is belial; +christ his people from hem wisse! for all such falsë will foul fall! they mowë both[ë] binde and lose, and all is for hir holy lyf; to save or dampne they mowë chose, betwene hem now [ther] is gret stryf. many a man is killed with knyf, to wete which of hem have lordship shall; for such, christ suffred woundes fyve; for all such falshed will foul fall. christ sayd: _qui gladio percutit_ with swerdë shall [he surely] dye; he bad his preestes pees and grith, and bad hem not drede for to dye; and bad them be both simple and slye, and carkë not for no cattall, and +truste on god that sitteth on hye; for all [such] falsë shull foul fall. these wollen makë men to swere ayenst christes commaundëment; and christes membres all to-tere on rode as he wer newe y-rent. suche lawes they make by commun assent, ech on it choweth as a ball; thus the pore be fully shent, but ever falshed foule it +fall! they usen [never] no symonye, but sellen churches and prioryes; ne [yet] they usen no envye, but cursen all hem contraryes; and hyreth men by dayes and yeres with strength to holde hem in hir stall; and culleth all hir adversaryes; therefor, falshed! foul thou fall! with purse they purchase personage, with purse they paynen hem to plede; and men of warrë they woll wage, to bringe hir enemyes to the dede. and lordes lyves they woll lede, and moche take, and give but small; but he it so get, from it shall shede, and make such falsë right foul fal! they halowe nothing but for hyre, churchë, font, ne vestëment; and make[n] orders in every shyre, but preestes paye for the parchement; of ryatours they taken rent, therwith they smere the shepes skall; for many churches ben oft suspent; all such falshed, yet foul it fall! some liveth nat in lecherye, but haunten wenches, widdowes, and wyves, and punisheth the pore for putrye; them-selfe it useth all their lyves. and but a man to them [him] shryves, to heven comë never he shall; he shal be cursed as be captyves, to hell they sayn that he shall fall. there was more mercy in maximien, and in nero, that never was good, than [there] is now in some of +hem whan he hath on his furred hood. they folowe christ that shedde his blood to heven, as bucket in-to the wall; suche wreches ben worse than wood; and all such faytours, foule hem fall! they give hir almesse to the riche, to maynteynours, and to men of lawe; for to lordes they woll be liche, an harlottes sone nat worth an hawe! sothfastnessë suche han slawe, they kembe hir crokets with cristall; and drede of god they have down drawe; all suche faytours, foul hem fall! they maken parsons for the penny, and canons of hir cardinals; unnethes amongest hem all any that he ne hath glosed the gospell fals! for christ made never no cathedrals, ne with him was no cardinall wyth a reed hatte as usen mynstrals; but falshed, foul mote it befall! +hir tything, and hir offring both, they cle[y]meth it by possessio[u]n; thérof nill they none forgo, but robben men as [by] raunsoun. the tything of _turpe lucrum_ with these maisters is meynall; tything of bribry and larson will makë falshed full foul fall! they taken to fermë hir sompnours to harme the people what they may; to pardoners and false faytours sell hir seles, i dar well say; and all to holden greet array, to multiply hem more metall, they drede full litell domes day whan all such [falsë] shall foul fall. suche harlottes shull men disclaunder for they shullen make hir gree, and ben as proude as alexaunder, and sayn to the pore, "wo be ye!" by yere ech preest shall paye his fee to encrese his lemmans call; suche herdes shull well yvell thee, and all such falsë shull foul fall! and if a man be falsly famed, and woldë make purgacioun, than woll the officers be agramed, and assigne him fro town to town; so nede he must[e] paye raunsoun though he be clene as is cristall, and than have an absolutioun; but all such falsë shull foul fall! though he be gilty of the dede, and that he [yet] may money pay, all the whyle his purse woll blede he may use it fro day to day! these bishoppes officers goon full gay, and this game they usen over-all; the pore to pill is all +hir pray; all such falsë shull foul fall! alas! god ordayned never such lawe, ne no such craft of covetyse; he forbad it, by his sawe, such governours mowen of god agryse; for all his rules +ben rightwyse. these newe poyntes ben pure papall, and goddes lawë they dispyse; and all such faytours shul foul fall! they sayn that peter had the key of hevin and hell, to have and hold; i trowe peter took no money for no sinnes that he sold! such successours ben to bold, in winning all their wit they wrall; hir conscience is waxen cold; and all such faytours, foule hem fall! peter was never so great a fole to leve his key with such a lorell, or to take such cursed such a tole he was advysed nothing well. i trowe, they have the key of hell; +hir maister is of that place marshall; for there they dressen hem to dwell, and with fals lucifer there to fall. they ben as proude as lucifer, as angry, and as envious; from good fayth they ben full fer, in covetyse they ben curious; to catche catell as covytous as hound, that for hunger woll yall; ungoodly, and ungracious; and nedely, such falshed shal foul fall! the pope, and he were peters heyr, me think, he erreth in this cas, whan choyse of bishoppes is in dispeyr, to chosen hem in dyvers place; a lord shall write to him for grace, for his clerke +pray anon he shall; so shall he spede[n] his purchas; and all such falsë, foule hem fall! though he +conne no more good, a lordes prayer shal be sped; though he be wild of will or wood, nat understanding what men han red, a boster, and (that god forbede!) as good a bishop +as my hors ball, suche a pope is foule be-sted, and at [the] lastë woll foul fall! he maketh bishops for erthly thank, and nothing for christes sake; such that ben ful fatte and rank, to soulë hele non hede they take. al is well don what ever they make, for they shal answere at +ones for all; for worldes thank, such worch and wake, and all such falsë shall foul fall! suche that +connë nat hir crede with prayer shull be mad prelates; nother +conne the gospell rede, such shull now welde hye estates. the hye goodes frendship hem makes, they toteth on hir somme totall; such bere the keyes of hell-yates, and all such falsë shall foul fall. they forsake, for christes love, traveyl, hunger, thurst, and cold; for they ben ordred ever all above out of youthe til they ben old. by the dore they go nat in-to the fold, to helpe +hir sheep they nought travall; hyred men all suche i holde, and all such falsë, foule hem fall! for christ hir king they woll forsake, and knowe him nought for his povert; for christes lovë they woll wake, and drink pyment [and] ale apart. of god they seme nothing a-ferd; as lusty liveth, as lamuall, and dryve hir sheep into desert; all such faytours shull foul fall! christ hath twelve apostels here; now say they, ther may be but oon, that may nat erre in no manere; who leveth nat this, ben lost echoon! peter erred, so dide nat john; why is he cleped the principall? christ cleped him peter, but himself the stoon; all falsë faytours, foule hem fall! why cursen they the croysery, christes christen crëatures? for bytwene hem is now envy to be enhaunsed in honours. and christen livers, with hir labours, for they leve on no man mortall, +ben do to dethe with dishonours; and all such falsë, foule hem fall! what knoweth a tillour at the plow the popes name, and what he hat? his crede suffyseth him y-now, and knoweth a cardinall by his hat. rough is the pore, unrightly lat, that knoweth christ his god royall; such maters be nat worth a gnat; but such false faytours, foule hem fall! a king shall knele and kisse his sho; christ suffred a sinfull kisse his feet. me thinketh, he holdeth him hye y-now, so lucifer did, that hye +seet. such oon, me thinketh, him-self foryet, either to the trouth he was nat call; christ, that suffred woundes wet, shall makë such falshed foul fall! they layeth out hir largë nettes for to take silver and gold, fillen coffers, and sackes fettes, there-as they soules cacche shold. hir servaunts be to +hem unhold, but they can doublin +hir rentall to bigge hem castels, and bigge hem hold; and all such falsë, foule hem fall! here endeth the first part of this tale, and herafter foloweth the seconde part. part ii. to accorde with this wordë "fal" no more english can i find; shewe another now i shall, for i have moche to say behind, how preestes han the people pynd, as curteys christ hath me [y-]kend, and put this matter in my mind to make this maner men amend. shortly to shende hem, and shewe now how wrongfully they worche and walke; o hye god, nothing they tell, ne how, but in goddes word, +tell many a balke. in hernes holde hem and in halke, and prechin of tythes and offrend, and untruely of the gospell talke; for his mercy, god it amend! what is antichrist to say but evin christes adversáry? such hath now ben many a day to christes bidding full contráry, that from the trouthë clenë vary; out of the wayë they ben wend; and christes people untruely cary; god, for his pitè, it amend! that liven contráry to christes lyf, in hye pride agaynst mekenesse; agaynst suffraunce they usen stryf, and angre ayenst sobrenesse; agaynst wisdom, wilfulnesse; to christes tales litell tend; agaynst mesúre, outragiousnesse; but whan god woll, it may amend! lordly lyf ayenst lowlinesse, and demin all without mercy; and covetyse ayenst largesse, agaynst trewth[e], trechery; and agaynst almesse, envy; agaynst christ they comprehend. for chastitè, they maynteyn lechery; god, for his gracë, this amend! ayenst penaunce they use delytes, ayenst suffraunce, strong defence; ayenst god they use yvel rightes, agaynst pitè, punishments; open yvell ayenst continence; hir wicked winning wors dispend; sobrenesse they sette in-to dispence; but god, for his goodnesse, it amend! why cleymen they hoolly his powére, and wranglen ayenst all his hestes? his living folowen they nothing here, but liven wors than witles beestes. of fish and flesh they loven feestes, as lordes, they ben brode y-kend; of goddes pore they haten gestes; god, for his mercy, this amend! with +dives such shall have hir doom that sayn that they be christes frendes, and do nothing as they shuld doon; all such ben falser than ben fendes. on the people they ley such bendes, as god is in erthe, they han offend; sucour for suchë christ now sende us. and, for his mercy, this amend! a token of antichrist they be, his careckes ben now wyde y-know; receyved to preche shall no man be without[ë] token of him, i trow. ech christen preest to prechen ow, from god abovë they ben send. goddes word to all folk for to show, sinfull man for to amend. christ sente the pore for to preche; the royall riche he did nat so; now dar no pore the people teche, for antichrist is over-all hir fo. among the people he mot go; he hath bidden, all such suspend; some hath he hent, and thinketh yet mo; but all this god may well amend. all tho that han the world forsake, and liven lo[w]ly, as god bad, in-to hir prison shullen be take, betin and bounden, and forth lad. herof i rede no man be drad; christ sayd, his [servaunts] shulde be shend; ech man ought herof be glad; for god ful well it woll amend. they take on hem royáll powére, and saye, they havë swerdes two, oon curse to hell, oon slee men here; for at his taking christ had no mo, yet peter had [that] oon of tho. but christ to peter smyte gan defend, and in-to the sheth bad putte it tho; and all such mischeves god amend! christ bad peter kepe his sheep, and with his swerde forbad him smyte; swerd is no tole with sheep to kepe but to shep[h]erdes that sheep woll byte. me thinketh, suche shep[h]erdes ben to wyte ayen hir sheep with swerd that contend; they dryve hir sheep with greet dispyte; but al this god may well amend. so successours to peter be they nought whom [that] christ madë cheef pastour; a swerd no shep[h]erde usen ought but he wold slee as a bochour. for who-so were peters successour shuld bere his sheep till his bak bend, and shadowe hem from every shour; and all this god may wel amend. successours to peter ben these in that that peter christ forsook, that had lever the love of god [to] lese than a shep[h]erde had to lese his hook. he culleth the sheep as doth the cook; of hem [they] taken the woll untrend, and falsely glose the gospell-book; god, for his mercy, +hem amend! after christ had take peter the kay, christ sayd, he mustë dye for man; that peter to christ gan withsay; christ bad him, 'go behind, sathan!' such counsaylours many of these men han for worldes wele, god to offend; peters successours they ben for-than, but all such god may well amend. for sathan is to say no more but he that contrary to christ is; in this they lernë peters lore, they sewen him whan he did mis; they folowe peter forsothe in this, in al that christ wolde +him reprende, nat in that that longeth to hevin blis; god for his mercy hem amend! some of the apostels they sewen in cas, of ought that i can understonde, him that betrayed christ, judas, that bar the purse in every londe; and al that he might sette on honde, he hidde and stal, and [gan] mispend; his rule these traytours han in honde; almighty god [now] hem amend! and at last his lord gan tray cursedly, through his covetyse; so wolde these trayen him for money, and they wisten in what wyse! they be seker of the selfe ensyse; from all sothnesse they ben frend; and covetyse chaungen with queyntyse; almighty god all suche amend! were christ on erthë here eft-soon, these wolde dampnë him to dye; all his hestes they han fordon, and sayn, his sawes ben heresy; ayenst his +maundëments they cry, and dampne all his to be [y-]brend; for it lyketh nat hem, such losengery; god almighty hem amend! these han more might in england here than hath the king and all his lawe, they han purchased hem such powére to taken hem whom [they] list nat knawe; and say, that heresy is hir sawe, and so to prison woll hem send; it was nat so by elder dawe, god, for his mercy, it amend! the kinges lawe wol no man deme angerliche, withouten answere; but, if any man these misqueme, he shal be baited as a bere; and yet wel wors they woll him tere, and in prisón woll hem [be] pend in gyves, and in other gere; whan god woll, it may [a]mend. the king taxeth nat his men but by assent of the comminaltè; but these, ech yere, woll raunsom hem maysterfully, more than doth he; hir seles, by yerë, better be than is the kinges in extend; hir officers han gretter fee; but this mischeef [may] god amend! for who-so woll prove a testament thát is natt all worth ten pound, he shall paye for the parchëment the third part of the money all round. thus the people is raunsound, they say, such part to hem shulde apend; there as they grypen, it goth to ground; god, for his mercy, it amend! a simple fornicacioun, twenty shillings he shall pay; and than have an absolucioun, and al the yere usen it forth he may! thus they letten hem go a-stray, they recke nat though the soul be brend; these kepin yvell peters key, and all such shep[h]erdes god amend! wonder is, that the parliament and all the lordes of this lond here-to taken so litell entent to helpe the people out of hir hond; for they ben harder in +hir bond, wors bete[n] and [more] bitter brend than to the king is understond; god him helpe this to amend! what bisshoppes, what religio[u]ns han in this lande as moch lay-fee, lordshippes, and possessio[u]ns more than the lordes, it semeth me! that maketh hem lese charitè, they mowë nat to god attend; in erthe they have so high degree, god, for his mercy, it amend! the emperour yaf the pope somtyme so hyghe lordship him about, that, at [the] laste, the sely kyme, the proudë popë putte him out! so of this realme is in dout, but lordes be ware and +hem defend; for now these folk be wonder stout, the king and lordes now this amend! thus endeth the seconde part of this tale, and herafter foloweth the thirde. part iii. moyses lawe forbood it tho, that preestes shuld no lordshippes welde, christes gospel biddeth also thát they shuld no lordship helde; ne christes apostels were never so bold no such lordshippes to +hem enbrace; but smeren hir sheep and kepe hir fold; god amende hem for his grace! for they ne ben but countrefet, men may knowe hem by hir fruit; hir gretnesse maketh hem god foryet, and take his mekenesse in dispyt. and they were pore and had but lyte, they nolde nat demen after the face, but norishe hir sheep, and hem nat byte; god amende hem for his grace!" grifon. "what canst thou preche ayenst chanons thát men clepen seculere?" pelican. "they ben curates of many towns, on erthë they have greet powére. they han greet prebendes and dere, some two or three, and some [han] mo, a personage to ben a playing-fere, and yet they serve the king also; and let to fermë all that fare to whom that woll most give therfore; some woll spende, and some woll spare, and some woll laye it up in store. a cure of soule[s] they care nat for, só they mowë money take; whether hir soules be wonne or lore, hir profits they woll nat forsake. they have a gedering procuratour that can the pore people enplede, and robben hem as a ravinour, and to his lord the money lede; and cacche of quicke and eke of dede, and richen him and his lord eke, and to robbe the pore can give good rede of olde and yonge, of hole and seke. therwith they purchase hem lay-fee in londë, there hem lyketh best, and builde +als brode as a citè both in the est, and eke in the west. to purchase thus they ben ful prest, but on the pore they woll nought spend, ne no good give to goddes gest, ne sende him some that all hath send. by hir service such woll live, and trusse that other in-to tresour; though all hir parish dye unshrive, they woll nat give a rosë-flour. hir lyf shuld be as a mirrour bothe to lered and to leude also, and teche the people hir leel labour; such mister men ben all misgo. some of hem ben hardë nigges, and some of hem ben proude and gay; some spende hir good upon [hir] gigges, and finden hem of greet aray. alas! what think these men to say that thus dispenden goddis good? at the dredfull domes day such wrecches shul be worse than wood. some hir churc[h]es never ne sye, ne never o peny thider ne sende; though the pore parishens for hunger dye, o peny on hem wil they nat spende. have they receivinge of the rent, they reck never of the remënant; alas! the devill hath clene hem blent! suche oon is sathanas sojournant. and usen horedom and harlotry, covetysë, pompe, and pride, slouthë, wrathe, and eke envy, and sewen sinne by every syde. alas! where thinkë such t'abyde? how woll they accomptes yeld? from hy god they mow hem nat hyde, such willers wit is nat worth a neld. they ben so roted in richesse, that christes povert is foryete, served with so many messe, hem thinketh that manna is no mete. all is good that they mow get, they wenë to live evermore; but, whan god at dome is set, such tresour is a feble store. unneth mot they matins say, for counting and for court-holding; and yet he jangleth as a jay, and understont him-self nothing. he woll serve bothe erl and king for his fynding and his fee, and hyde his tything and his offring; this is a feble charitè. other they ben proude, or coveytous, or they ben harde, or [els] hungry, or they ben liberall or lecherous, or els medlers with marchandry; or maynteyners of men with maistry, or stewardes, countours, or pledours, and serve god in hypocrisy; such preestes ben christes fals traytours! they ben false, they ben vengeable, and begylen men in christes name; they ben unstedfast and unstable; to tray hir lord, hem thinketh no shame. to servë god they ben full lame, goddes theves, and falsly stele; and falsly goddes word defame; in winning is hir worldes wele. antichrist these serven all; i pray thee, who may say [me] nay? with antichrist such [folk] shull fall, they folowen him in dede and fay; they servin him in riche array, to servë christ such falsly fayn; why, at the dredful domes day, shull they not folowe him to payn? that knowen hem-self, that they don ill ayenst christes commaundëment, and amende hem never ne will, but serve sathan by one assent. who sayth [the] sothe, he shal be shent, or speketh ayenst hir fals living; who-so well liveth shal be brent, for such ben gretter than the king! pope, bishoppes, and cardinals, chanons, persons, and vicaire, in goddes service, i trow, ben fals, that sacramentës sellen here. and ben as proude as lucifere; ech man loke whether that i ly! who-so speketh ayenst hir powére, it shall be holden heresy. loke how many orders take only of christ, for his servyce, that the worldes goodes forsake? who-so taketh orders +on other wyse, i trow, that they shall sore agryse! for all the glose that they conne, all sewen not this [same] assyse; in yvell tyme they thus bigonne. loke how many among hem all holden not this hyë way! with antichrist they shullen fall, for they wolden god betray. god amende hem, that best may! for many men they maken shende; they weten well, the sothe i say, bút the divell hath foule hem blend. some [up]on hir churches dwell, apparailled porely, proude of port; the seven sacraments they don sell, in cattel-cacching is hir comfort. of ech mattér they wollen mell, and don hem wrong is hir disport; to afray the people they ben fell, and holde hem lower then doth the lord. for the tythinge of a ducke, or of an apple, or an ay, they make men swere upon a boke; thus they foulen christes fay. such beren yvell heven-kay, they mowen assoyl, they mowë shryve; with mennes wyves strongly play, with trewë tillers sturte and stryve at the wrestling, and at the wake; and chefe chauntours at the nale; market-beters, and medling make, hoppen and houten with heve and hale. at fayrë freshe, and at wynë stale, dyne and drinke, and make debat; the seven sacraments set at sale; how kepe such the kayes of heven-gat? mennes wyves they wollen holde; and though that they ben right sory, to speke they shull not be so bolde for sompning to the consistory; and make hem say [with] mouth "i ly," though they it sawë with hir y; his lemman holden openly, no man so hardy to axë why! he wol have tythinge and offringe, maugrè who-so-ever it gruche; and twyës on the day woll singe; goddes prestes nere none suche! he mot on hunting with dogge and bic[c]he, and blowen his horn, and cryën "hey!" and sorcery usen as a wicche; such kepen yvell peters key. yet they mot have som stocke or stoon gayly paynted, and proudly dight, to maken men [to] +leven upon, and say, that it is full of might; about such, men sette up greet light, other such stockes shull stand therby as darkë as it were midnight, for it may make no ma[i]stry. that lewed people see it mow, thou, mary, worchest wonder thinges; about that, that men offren to now, hongen broches, ouches, and ringes; the preest purchaseth the offringes, but he nill offre to none image; wo is the soule that he for singes, that precheth for suche a pilgrimage! to men and women that ben pore, that ben [in] christes own lykenesse, men shullen offre at hir dore that suffren honger and distresse; and to suche imáges offre lesse, that mow not felë thurst ne cold; the pore in spirit gan christ blesse, therfore offreth to feble and old. buckelers brode, and swerdes longe, +baudriks, with baselardes kene, such toles about hir necke they honge; with antichrist such preestes been; upon hir dedes it is well sene whom they serven, whom they hono[u]ren; antichristes they ben clene, and goddes goodes fa[l]sly deuouren. of scarlet and grene gay[ë] gownes, that mot be shapë for the newe, to clippen and kissen counten in townes the damoseles that to the daunce sewe; cutted clothes to sewe hir hewe, with longë pykes on hir shoon; our goddes gospell is not trewe, eyther they serven the divell or noon! now ben prestes pokes so wyde, men must enlarge the vestëment; the holy gospell they don hyde, for they contrarien in rayment. such preestes of lucifer ben sent, lyk conquerours they ben arayd, proude pendaunts at hir ars y-pent, falsly the truthe they han betrayd. shryft-silver suchë wollen aske is, and woll men crepë to the crouche; none of the sacraments, save askes, without[ë] mede shall no man touche. on hir bishop their warant vouche, that is lawe of the decrè; with mede and money thus they mouche, and +this, they sayn, is charitè! in the middes of hir masse they nill have no man but for hyre, and, full shortly, let forth passe; such shull men finde[n] in ech shyre that personages for profite desyre, to live in lykinge and in lustes; i dar not sayn, _sans ose ieo dyre_, that such ben antichristes preestes. or they yef the bishops why, or they mot ben in his servyce, and holden forth hir harlotry; such prelats ben of feble empryse. of goddes grame such men agryse, for such mattérs that taken mede; how they excuse hem, and in what wyse, me thinketh, they ought greetly drede. they sayn, that it to no man longeth to reprove +hem, though they erre; but falsely goddes good they fongeth, and therwith maynteyn wo and werre. hir dedes shuld be as bright as sterre, hir living, lewed mannes light; they say, the popë may not erre, nede must that passë mannes might. though a prest ly with his lemman al night, and tellen his felowe, and he him, he goth to massë anon-right, and sayeth, he singeth out of sinne! his bryde abydeth him at his inne, and dighteth his dyner the mene whyle; he singeth his masse for he wolde winne, and so he weneth god begyle! hem thinketh long till they be met; and that they usen forth all the yere; among the folk when he is set, he holdeth no man half his pere; of the bishop he hath powére to soyle men, or els they ben lore; his absolucion may make +hem skere; and wo is the soul that he singeth for!" the griffon began for to threte, and sayd, "of monkes canst thou ought?" the pellican sayd, "they ben full grete, and in this world moch wo hath wrought. saynt benet, that hir order brought, ne made hem never on such manere; i trowe, it cam never in his thought that they shulde use so greet powér[e]; that a man shulde a monk lord cal, ne serve on kneës, as a king. he is as proud as prince in pall in mete, and drink, and [in] all thing; some weren myter and ring, with double worsted well y-dight, with royall mete and riche drink, and rydeth on courser as a knight. with hauke[s] and with houndes eke, with broches or ouches on his hode, some say no masse in all a weke, of deyntees is hir moste fode. with lordshippes and with bondmen this is a royall religioun; saynt benet made never none of hem to have lordship of man ne town. now they ben queynte and curious, with fyn cloth cladde, and served clene, proude, angry, and envyous, malyce is mochë that they mene. in cacching crafty and covetous, lordly liven in greet lyking; this living is not religious according to benet in his living. they ben clerkes, hir courtes they oversee, hir pore tenaunts fully they flyte; the hyer that a man amerced be, the gladlyer they woll it wryte. this is fer from christes povertè, for all with covetyse they endyte; on the pore they have no pitè, ne never hem cherish, but ever hem byte. and comunly suche ben comen of pore people, and of hem begete, that this perfeccion han y-nomen; hir +faders ryde not but on hir fete, and travaylen sore for that they ete, in povert liveth, yonge and old; hir +faders suffreth drought and wete, many hongry meles, thurst, and cold. all this the monkes han forsake for christes love and saynt benet; to pryde and esë have hem take; this religio[u]n is yvell beset. had they ben out of religioun, they must have honged at the plow, threshing and dyking fro town to town with sory mete, and not half y-now. therfore they han this all forsake, and taken to riches, pryde, and ese; full fewe for god woll monkes hem make, litell is suche order for to prayse! saynt benet ordayned it not so, but bad hem be [ful] cherelich; in churlich maner live and go, boystous in erth, and not lordlych. they disclaunder saynt benet, therfore they have his holy curse; saynt benet with hem never met but-if they thought to robbe his purse! i can no more herof [now] tell, but they ben lykë tho before, and clenë serve the divell of hell, and ben his tresour and his store. and all suche other counterfaytours, chanons, canons, and such disgysed, ben goddes enemies and traytours, his true religion han foul dispysed. of freres i have told before in a making of a 'crede,' and yet i coud tell worse and more, but men wold werien it to rede! as goddes goodnes no man tell might, wryte ne speke, ne think in thought, so, hir falshed and hir unright may no man tell, that ever god wrought." the gryffon sayd, "thou canst no good, thou cam never of no gentill kind; other, i trow, thou waxest wood, or els thou hast [y-]lost thy mynd. shuld holy churchë have no heed? who shuld be her governayl? who shuld her rule, who shuld her reed, who shuld her forthren, who shuld avayl? ech man shall live by his travayl; who best doth, shall have moste mede; with strength if men the churche assayl, with strength men must defende her nede. and the pope were purely pore, nedy, and nothing ne had, he shuld be driven from dore to dore; the wicked of him nold not be drad. of such an heed men wold be sad, and sinfully liven as hem +list; with strength, amendes +shuld be made, with wepen, wolves from sheep be +wist. if the pope and prelats wold so begge and bidde, bowe, and borowe, holy churche shuld stand full cold, hir servaunts sitte and soupë sorowe! and they were noughty, foule, and horowe, to worship god men woldë wlate; bothe on even and on morowe such harlotry men woldë hate. therfore men of holy churche shuld ben honest in all thing, worshipfully goddes workes werche, so semeth it, to serve christ hir king in honest and in clene clothing; with vessels of golde and clothes riche, to god honestly to make offring; to his lordship non is liche." the pellican caste an houge cry, and sayd, "alas! why sayest thou so? christ is our heed that sitteth on hy, heddes ne ought we have no mo. we ben his membres both also, and +fader he taught us to cal him als; maysters be called defended he tho; all other maysters ben wicked and fals, that taketh maystry in his name, gostly, and for erthly good; kinges and lordes shuld lordship han, and rule the people with myldë mode. christ, for us that shedde his blood, bad his preestes no maystership have, ne carkë nat for cloth ne fode; from every mischef he will hem save. hir riche clothing shal be rightwysnesse, hir tresour, trewë lyf shal be; charitè shal be hir richesse, hir lordship shal be unitè; hope in god, hir honestè; hir vessell, clenë conscience; pore in spirit, and humilitè, shal be holy churches defence." "what," sayd the griffon, "may thee greve that other folkes faren wele? what hast thou to donë with hir +leve? thy falsheed ech man may fele. for thou canst no catell gete, but livest in londe, as a lorell, with glosing gettest thou thy mete; so fareth the devell that wonneth in hell. he wold that ech man ther shuld dwell, for he liveth in clene envy; so with the tales that thou doest tell thou woldest other people distry, with your glose, and your heresy, for ye can live no better lyf, but clenë in hypocrisy, and bringest thee in wo and stryf. and therwith have [ye] not to done, for ye ne have[n] here no cure; ye serve the divell, +not god ne man, and he shall payë you your hyre. for ye woll farë well at feestes, and warm [be] clothed for the colde, therfore ye glose goddes hestes, and begyle the people, yonge and olde. and all the seven sacraments ye speke ayenst, as ye were sly, ayenst tythings with your entents, and on our lordes body falsly ly. all this ye don to live in ese, as who sayeth, ther ben non suche; and sayn, the pope is not worth a pese, to make the people ayen him gruche. and this commeth in by fendes, to bringe the christen in distaunce; for they wold that no man were frendes; leve thy chattring, with mischaunce! if thou live well, what wilt thou more? let other men live as hem list; spende in good, or kepe in store; other mennes conscience never thou nist. ye han no cure to answere for; what meddell ye, that han not to don? let men live as they han don yore, for thou shalt answere for no +mon." the pellican sayd, "sir, nay, [nay], i dispysed not the pope, ne no sacrament, soth to say; but speke in charitè and good hope. but i dispyse hir hyë pryde, hir richesse, that shuld be pore in spryt; hir wickednesse is knowe so wyde, they servë god in fals habyt; and turnen mekenesse into pryde, and lowlinesse into hy degrè, and goddes wordes turne and hyde; and that am i moved by charitè to lettë men to livë so with all my conning and al my might, and to warne men of hir wo and to tell hem trouth and right. the sacraments be soulë-hele if they ben used in good use; ayenst that speke i never a del, for then were i nothing wyse. but they that use hem in mis manére, or sette hem up to any sale, i trow, they shall abye hem dere; this is my reson, this is my tale. who-so taketh hem unrightfulliche ayenst the ten commaundëments, or by glosë wrechedliche selleth any of the sacraments, i trow, they do the devell homage in that they weten they do wrong; and therto, i dar well wage, they serven satan for al her song. to tythen and offren is hoolsom lyf, so it be don in dew manére; a man to houselin and to shryve, wedding, and all the other in-fere, so it be nother sold ne bought, ne take ne give for covetyse; and it be so taken, it is nought; who selleth hem so, may sore agryse. on our lordes body i do not ly, i say soth, thorow trewë rede, his flesh and blood, through his mystry, is there, in the forme of brede. how it is there, it nedeth not stryve, whether it be subget or accident, but as christ was, when he was on-lyve, so is he there, verament. if pope or cardinall live good lyve, as christ commaunded in his gospell, +ayenës that woll i not stryve; but, me thinketh, they live not well. for if the pope lived as god bede, pryde and hyghnesse he shuld dispyse, richesse, covetyse, and crowne on hede, mekenesse and povert he shulde use." the gryffon sayd, he shulde abye-- "thou shal[t] be brent in balefull fyre; and all thy secte i shall distrye, ye shal be hanged by the swyre! ye shullen be hanged and to-drawe. who giveth you levë for to preche, or speke +agaynës goddes lawe, and the people thus falsly teche? thou shalt be cursed with boke and bell, and dissevered from holy churche, and clene y-dampned into hell, otherwyse but ye woll worche!" the pellican sayd, "that i ne drede; your cursinge is of litell value; of god i hope to have my mede, for it is falshed that ye shewe. for ye ben out of charitè and wilneth vengeaunce, as did nero; to suffren i woll redy be; i drede not that thou canst do. christ bad ones suffre for his love, and so he taught all his servaunts; and but thou amend for his sake above, i drede not all thy mayntenaunce. for if i drede the worldes hate, me thinketh, i were litell to prayse; i drede nothing your hye estat, ne i drede not your disese. wolde ye turne and leve your pryde, your hyë port, and your richesse, your cursing shuld not go so wyde; god bring you into rightwysnesse! for i drede not your tyranny, for nothing that ye can doon; to suffre i am all redy, siker, i recke never how soon!" the griffon grinned as he were wood, and loked lovely as an owle! and swor, by cockes hertë blood, he wolde him terë, every doule! "holy churche thou disclaundrest foule! for thy resons i woll thee all to-race; and make thy flesh to rote and moule; losell, thou shalt have hardë grace!" the griffon flew forth on his way; the pellican did sitte and weep; and to him-selfë he gan say, "god wolde that any of christes sheep had herd, and y-takë kepe eche a word that here sayd was, and wolde it wryte and well it kepe! god wolde it were all, for his grace!" plowman. i answerde, and sayd i wolde, if for my travayl any wold pay. pelican. he sayd, "yes; these that god han sold; for they han [greet] store of money!" plowman. i sayd, "tell me, and thou may, why tellest thou mennës trespace?" pelican. he said, "to amende hem, in good fay, if god woll give me any grace. for christ him-selfe is lykned to me, that for his people dyed on rode; as fare i, right so fareth he, he fedeth his birdes with his blode. but these don yvell +ayenës good, and ben his foon under frendes face; i tolde hem how hir living stood; god amende hem, for his grace!" plowman. "what ayleth the griffon, tell [me] why, that he holdeth on that other syde?" pellican. "for they two ben [of kind], lykly, and with [lyk] kindes robben wyde. the foul betokeneth [evill] pryde, as lucifer, that hygh +flowe was; and sith he did him in evell hyde, for he agilted goddes grace. as bird [that] flyeth up in the ayr, and liveth by birdes that ben meke, so these be flowe up in dispayr, and shenden sely soules eke. the soules that ben in sinnes seke, he culleth hem; knele therfore, alas! for brybry goddes forbode breke, god amende it, for his grace! the hinder part is a lyoun, a robber and a ravinere, that robbeth the people in erth a-down, and in erth holdeth non his pere; so fareth this foul, both fer and nere; with temporel strength they people chase, as a lyon proud in erthë here; god amende hem for hys grace!" he flew forth with his winges twayn, all drouping, dased, and dull. but soone the griffon cam agayn, of his foules the erth was full; the pellican he had cast to pull. so greet a nombre never seen ther was; what maner of foules, tellen i woll, if god woll give me of his grace. with the griffon comen foules fele, ravins, rokes, crowes, and pye, gray foules, agadred wele, y-gurd, above they woldë hye. gledes and bosardes weren hem by; whyt molles and puttockes token hir place; and lapwinges, that wel conneth ly, this felowship han for-gerd hir grace. longe the pellican was out, but at [the] laste he cometh agayn; and brought with him the phenix stout. the griffon wolde have flowe full fayn; his foules, that flewen as thycke as rayn, the phenix tho began hem chace; to fly from him it was in vayn, for he did vengeaunce and no grace. he slew hem down without mercy, ther astartë neyther free ne thrall; on him they cast a rufull cry when the griffon down was fall. he beet hem not, but slew hem all; whither he hem drove, no man may trace; under the erthe, me thought, they yall; alas! they had a feble grace! the pellican then axed right, "for my wryting if i have blame, who woll for me fight of flight? who shall sheldë me from shame? he that had a mayd to dame, the lamb that slayn [for sinners] was, shall sheldë me from gostly blame; for erthly harm is goddes grace. therfore i praye every man, of my wryting have me excused." this wryting wryteth the pellican, that thus these people hath dispysed; for i am, fresh, fully advysed, i nill not maynteyn his manace. for the devell is +oft disguysed, to bringe a man to yvell grace. wyteth the pellican, and not me, for herof i nil not avowe, in hy ne in low, ne in no degrè, but as a fable take it ye mowe. to holy churche i will me bowe; ech man to amende him, christ send space! and for my wryting me alowe he that is almighty, for his grace.' finis. _from_ thynne (ed. ). _i give rejected spellings._ . ploweman; plowe. . eate ynowe. . lyge; chynne. . cowe. . bone; skynne. . shoke; -drowe. . honge; pynne. . toke; tabarde; staffe. . pylgremage; platte. . bare. . forswatte. . sene. . behelde wele. . sawe. . knewe; snoute. . coulde; loute. . plowe. . meate. . auowe. . wyfe; fynde. . howe. . leude; bene; full (_read_ fully; _see_ l. ); blynde. . fayne. . her; _supply_ to; swet. . agayne. . eate. . the (_for_ they; , they); sayne. . hell. . payne. . her. . sayne. . corne. . speaketh. . preache. . nere; thynge. . ons ( , ones); teache. . preachynge. . saye; the. . praye; noman. . whyle; tellynge. colophon: fyrst parte. . stryfe. . bene. . great; vngrounde (!). . souble (_error for_ souple). . foule. . one. . freers. . great. . heuyn. . foule mought. . _supply_ al; prease. . caytyffes. . one; encrease. . i-clepeth (!); londlese. . bene. . peace. . foule. . knowe. . trauayle. . ferre. . wodde. . sawe. . one. . grymme. . measure. . counsayle. . sharpe. . foule. . preache. . mekenesse. . teache. . blesse. . beareth wytnesse. . lambe; lykeneth. . tokenynge. . lowlyche; lowe. . crowne; couetours (_read_ covertours). . pylloure (_for_ pelure). . great treasours. . foule. . preests shulde. . bateyle shulde. . her owne. . syttynges; hye. . souerayntie; house. . worshippe. . who so (_omit_ so); foule shall. . suche. . erthlye. . suche shall. . y-buylden her boure. . them to hem; _supply_ be. . holde; one. . suche one shall (_om._ one). . peeres. . poore freers. . nowe. . her. . noman; permagall. . whyle; her. . suche; mote. . glytterande; great araye. . co_m_men; maye; gaye. . daye. . great. . baye. . suche; mote. . punyshed (!); _see_ l. . . sustayne. . her. . leude. . suche; foule them befall (_see_ ll. , ). . meates. . songe; syttynge longe. . her. . meate; gonge. . meate; harpe; songe. . eche; mote. . amonge. . suche; foule. . one. . staffe; pyrrey; _read_ perrey. . made; lead. . golde; redde. . glytterande; golde (_repeated from_ l. ; _read_ gown). . foule. . her. . hel. . her. . her gaye. . great. . poore. . suche; foule. , . her. . kynge. . glyttryng ( , glytteryng). . golde. . foule. . clepen (!); bene. . antichriste; her. . foule. . done (_but_ , dome; _read_ demed). . whiche. , . her. . suche; foule. . her. . mote. . forbede (= forb[=e]d). . suche. . mote; her. , . greater. . thynke. . suche; stynke. . bowynge. . must nede euyll; _i omit_ nede. . suche; sect sewys. . her. . her. . chrystes (!); _read_ christ his. . suche; foule. . her; lyfe. . _supply_ ther; great stryfe. . a knyfe (_om._ a). . suche. . suche; foule. . _supply_ he surely. . peace. . bade. . trusteth (!). . _supply_ such; foule. . roode. . co_m_men. . echeon. . poore. . befall; _read_ fall. . _supply_ never. . _supply_ yet. . her. . her. . foule; falle. . her. . suche; foule. . shyppes (!); , shepes. . ofte. . suche; foule. . poore. . _supply_ him. . sayne. . _supply_ there; nowe; them. . hoode. . blode. . buckette; (wall = well). . wode. . suche. . her. . _omit_ to? . sonne; worthe. . her crokettes; christall. . downe. . foule. . her. . redde; vsyn. . falsshed foule. . their (_read_ hir); her. . clemeth; _see_ l. . . _supply_ by; raunsome. , , . foule. . to fall (_omit_ to). . her. . her seales; dare. . great. . suche; _supply_ false. . her. . sayne; poore. . eche preeste. . encrease. . heerdes; the. . suche. . falsely. . towne (_twice_). . raunsome. . christall. . suche. , , . foule. . gyltie. . _supply_ yet; maye. . maye. . gone. . poore; theyr (_read_ hir). . suche. . suche. . suche crafte. . forbade. . suche. . is (_read_ ben). . dispyce. . suche. . sayne. . heuyn; holde. . toke. . solde. . suche; bolde. . wytte. . colde. . suche. . leaue. . suche (_twice_). . theyr (_for_ hir). . false lucifere. . lucifarre. . faythe; farre. . hou_n_de; hungre. . vngratious. . suche. , , . foule. . heyre. . thynke; case. . dispeyre. . lorde. . anone pray. . purchase. . suche. . can (_read_ conne). . spedde. . wylde. . redde. . leude boster (_om._ leude). . byshoppe; is (_read_ as); horse. . be stedde. . _supply_ the; last. . byshoppes. . suche; ranke. . heale none. . done. . one fors (!); _misprint_. . thanke suche. . suche. , , . foule. . canne; _read_ conne; her. . made. . canne. . suche; nowe. . her. . suche. . suche. . traueyle hungre; colde. . olde. . folde. . theyr (_for_ hir); shepe. . suche. . her. . pouerte. . drynke; pyement; _supply_ and; aparte. . a ferde. . as dyd (_om._ dyd). . dryuen her shepe; deserte. . suche. . xij. . nowe; there; one. . echone. . stone. . nowe. . her. . leuyn. . but (_read_ ben). . suche. . plowe. . hate (!). . to hym (_om._ to); ynowe. . hatte. . poore; latte. . suche; gnatte. . suche. . showe. . to kysse (_om._ to); fete. . ynowe. . sette; _read_ seet (= sat). . suche one; hym selfe foryete. . _for_ call _read_ tall (?); _cf. l._ . . wete. . suche; foule. . her. . golde. . catche sholde. . her seruauntes; them (_read_ hem); vnholde. . theyr (_for_ hir). . holde. . suche. . fynde. . nowe. . saye behynde. . howe; pynde. . kende; _see_ l. . . putte; mynde. . amende. . nowe. . howe. . howe. . worde; telleth (_see_ l. ). . offrende. . amende. . saye. . suche hathe nowe. . varry. . wende. . pytie; amende. . lyfe. . sufferaunce; stryfe. . wysedome. . tende. . measure. . maye amende. . lyfe. . comprehende. . maynteyne. . amende. . delyghtes. . stronge. . vsen. . agaynste pytie punishementes. . her; worse dispende. . amende. . holy. . worse; wytlesse. . fyshe; fleshe. . ykende. . poore. . amende. . dyuers (_read_ dives); suche; her dome. . sayne. . shulde done. . suche. . suche. . offende. . nowe. . amende. . nowe; yknowe. . trowe. . eche; owe (!). . sende. . worde; folke; showe. . amende. . poore. . nowe dare; poore. . her foe. . amonge; mote. . suche suspende. . hente. . amende. . worlde. . loly; badde. . her. . forthe ladde. . dradde. . _supply_ servaunts; shende. . eche; gladde. , , , . amende. . one; one. . _supply_ that; one. . defende. . badde. . suche. . badde; shepe. . forbade. . swerde; shepe. . shepe. . her shepe; swerde; contende. . her shepe; great. . _supply_ that; chefe pastoure. . swerde. . bochoure. . shulde; shepe; backe bende. . shoure. . forsoke. . _supply_ to (_as in_ l. ). . hoke. . shepe; dothe; coke. . _supply_ they; vntrende. . -boke. . them amende. . badde; behynde. . suche. . offende. . suche; amende. . _read_ contrar. . mysse. . peter (_read_ him); reprehende. . but nat (_om._ but); heuyn blysse. . amende. . case. . bare. . stale; _supply_ gan; myspende. . _supply_ now; amende. . hys false (_om._ false). . frende = fremd. . amende. . efte sone. . fordone. . sayne. . and ayenst (_omit_ and); commaundementes (_read_ maundements); crye. . brende. . suche. . amende. . englande. . kynge. . suche. . _supply_ they (_or_ hem); lyste. . her. . prysone; sende. . amende. . bayghted. . worse. . prysone; _supply_ be; pende. . maye mende. . assente. . eche. . her seales. . extende. . mischefe; _supply_ may; amende. . worthe tenne pounde. . thyrde parte; rounde. . raunsounde. . saye suche parte; apende. . gothe; grounde. . amende. . fornycatioun. . shyllynges; paye. . absolution. . forthe; maye. . soule; brende. . suche; amende. . londe. . her honde. . theyr (_for_ hir); bonde. . worse beate; _supply_ more; brende. . vnderstande. . amende. . _read_ religiouns. . moche laye. . attende. . hyghe. . amende. . aboute. . _supply_ the. . doute. . them defende. . nowe; folke; stoute. . kynge; nowe; amende. . forbode. . shulde. . shulde; lordshyppe. . bolde. . suche lordeshyppes; them (_for_ hem). . her shepe; her folde. . countrefete. . her fruite. . her; foryete. . dispyte. . poore. . her shepe. - . great. . thre; _supply_ han. . playeng. . kynge. . lette. . soule; fore. . her. . her profytes. . poore. . lorde. . catche. . lorde. . poore. . syke (_for_ seke); _see l._ . . also (_read_ als). . poore; spende. . sende. . her; suche. . treasour. . her paryshe. . -floure. . her lyfe shulde. . her lele. . suche. . her; _supply_ hir. . great. . thynke. . dredefull. . suche wretches. . her. . poore; hungre. . rente. . recke. . one. . horedome. . suche tabyde. . howe; yelde. . hye; mowe. . suche; wytte; nelde. . foryet. . mowe gete. . sette. . suche treasour. . mote; saye. . holdynge. . iaye. . selfe nothynge. . erle; kynge. . tythynge; offrynge. . _supply_ els. . false. . her lorde. . falsely; worde. . her. . the; _supply_ me. . suche; _supply_ folk. . suche falsely fayne. . dredeful. . payne. . selfe; done. . _supply_ the. . her false. . suche. . _read_ vikere. . trowe; false. . eche; lye. . _read_ who speke ayeinës; her. . howe. . onely; christe. . or (_read_ on). . trowe. . _supply_ same. . howe; amonge. . waye. . betraye. . maye. . saye. . blende. . on (_read_ upon); her. . poorely; porte. . sacramentes; done. . catchynge; her comforte. . eche. . done; wronge; her dysporte. . afraye. . lorde. . aye. . sweare. . suche bearen; heauen. . assoyle. . true (_better_ trewë). . wrestlynge. . markette beaters; medlynge. . debate. . sacramentes; sayle (!). . howe; suche; gate. . speake. . sompnynge. . saye; _supply_ with; lye. . her eye. . twyse; daye he (_om._ he). . mote. . horne. . wytche. . suchen. . mote; some; stone. . _supply_ to; lyuen. . saye. . aboute suche; great. . suche; stande. . maye. . that it leude people se mowe. . mary thou (_om._ thou). . aboute; nowe. . poore. . _supply_ in; owne. . her. . mowe; colde. . poore; sprete; christe. . olde. . sweardes. . baudryke (_read_ baudriks). . suche; her. . suche; bene. . her. . whome (_twice_). . bene. . gay. . mote. . her. . her shone. . none. . nowe. . that men (_om._ that). . done. . suche. . lyke. arayde. . the proude (_om._ the); pendauntes; her. . falsely; betrayde. . shryfte-. . sacramentes. . her byshoppe. . thus (_read_ this); sayne. . her. . suche; eche. . profyte. . dare; sayne. . suche. . byshoppes. . mote. . her. . suche prelates. . suche. . suche. . howe. . greatly. . sayne. . them (_for_ hem). . goddes goodesse (!). . maynteyne. . her; shulde. . her lyuynge leude. . saye; maye. . muste. . lye. . anone. . meane. . longe; mette. . amonge; folke; sette. . halfe. . byshoppe. . absolution maye; them (_for_ hem). . soule; fore. . her. . suche. . came. . great. . monke lorde. . kynge. . proude. . meate; drynke; _supply_ in. . wearen; rynge. . meate; drynke. . on a (_om._ a). . saye. . deynties; her; foode. . religion. . lordshyppe; towne. . nowe. . fyne clothe. . meane. . catchynge. . great lykynge. . lyuynge. . accordynge; benette; lyuynge. . her; ouerse. . her poore tenaunce. . hyre ( , hyer). . farre. . poore. . cheryshe. . co_m_menly. . poore. . perfection. . her fathers ryden; her. . olde. . her fathers. . colde. . and all (_om._ and). . benette. . ease. . besette. . plowe. . threshynge; dykynge; towne; towne. . halfe ynowe. . ease. . badde; _supply_ ful; cherelyche. . churlyche. . earth. . benette. . mette. . _supply_ now. . treasoure. . suche. . foule. . tolde. . makynge. . coulde. . wolde. . goodnesse. . speake; thynke. . her (_twice_). . came; kynde. . trowe. . lost; mynde. - . shulde. . gouernayle. . auayle. . eche; trauayle. . assayle. . poore. . nothynge; hadde. . shulde. . nolde; dradde. . wolde; sadde. . lust (_read_ list). . such (_read_ shuld). . shepe; wust (_read_ wist). . prelates wolde. . shulde stande; colde. . her seruauntes. . worshyppe. . suche. . shulde; thynge. . her kynge. . clothynge. . offrynge. . lordshypppe (!) none. . crye. . hye. . father. . to be (_om._ to). . _read_ wikke? . goostly; earthly. . shulde; hane. . blode. . badde. . myschefe. - . her. . clothynge. . treasoure; lyfe. . lordshyppe. . poore; spirite. . the. . haste; lyue (_read_ leve). . eche. . glosynge. . wolde; eche; there shulde. . enuye. . lyfe. . the; stryfe. . _supply_ ye. . neyther (_read_ not). . warme; _supply_ be. . sacramentes. . speake; slye. . tythynges offringes w_i_t_h_ (_omit_ offringes); ente_n_tes. . lye. . done; ease. . there; none. . sayne; pease. . wolde. . leaue; chattrynge. . fore. . done. . done. . shalte; man. . _supply_ nay. . sacramente. . speake. - . her. . shulde; poore; spirite. . false habyte. . hye. . connynge. . her. . sacramentes. . speake; dele. . nothynge. . vsen; mysse. . trowe. . reason. . co_m_maundementes. . sacramentes. . trowe. . wronge. . dare. . songe. . holsome lyfe. . done; dewe. . weddynge. . solde. . maye. . lye. . saye; thorowe. . fleshe; blode; mystrye. . howe. . subgette. . ayenst. . shulde. . pouerte. . dystrye. . leaue; preache. . speake agaynst. . falsely teache. . sayde. . falshede. . badde. . seruauntes. . amende. . nothynge; estate. . dysease. . leaue. . porte. . cursynge shulde. . brynge. . nothynge; done. . howe soone. . wode. . swore; bloode. . reasons; the. . fleshe. . shalte. . flewe; waye. . wepe. . saye. . shepe. . herde. . worde. . wrytte. . trauayle; any man wolde (_om._ man). . solde. . _supply_ greet. . lykened. . done; ayenst gode. . fone. . howe her lyuynge stode. . _supply_ me. . _supply_ pellican (_wrongly prefixed to_ l. ); _supply_ of kind. . _supply_ lyk. . foule; _supply_ evill. . flewe (_read_ flowe; _see_ l. ). . byrde; _supply_ that; ayre. . into (_read_ in); dyspayre. . parte. . earth a downe. . none. . foule; ferre. . and wyth (_om._ and). . proude; earth. . (pellican _is written above this line_); flewe; twayne. . droupynge. . came agayne. . earth. . great; sene there. . igurde. . whyte; her. . lye. . for gerde her. . _supply_ the. . stoute. . fayne. . rayne. . flye; vayne. . slewe; downe. . there. . downe. . bete; slewe. . wrytynge. . mayde. . and the lambe (_om._ and); _supply_ for sinners. . erthely harme. - . wrytynge. . freshe. . maynteyne. . often (_read_ oft). . hye; lowe. . eche; sende. . wrytynge. * * * * * iii. jack upland. i, jack uplande, make my mone to very god and to all true belevinge in christ, that antichrist and his disciples, by colour of holines, walken and deceiven christes church by many fals figures, wherethrough, by antichrist and his, many vertues been transposed to vices. but the fellest folk that ever antichrist found been last brought into the church, and in a wonder wyse; for they been of divers sectes of antichrist, sowen of divers countrees and kinredes. and all men knowen wel, that they ben not obedient to bishoppes, ne lege men to kinges; neither they tillen ne sowen, weden, ne repen woode, corn, ne gras, neither nothing that man shuld helpe but only hem-selves, hir lyves to sustein. and these men han all maner power of god, as they sayen, in heaven and in earth, to sell heaven and hell to whom that hem lyketh; and these wrecches wete never where to been hemselves. and therfore, frere, if thine order and rules ben grounded on goddes law, tell thou me, jack upland, that i aske of thee; and if thou be or thinkest to be on christes syde, kepe thy pacience. saynt paul techeth, that al our dedes shuld be don in charitè, and els it is nought worth, but displesing to god and harm to oure owne soules. and for because freres chalengen to be gretest clerkes of the church, and next folowinge christ in livinge, men shulde, for charitè, axe hem some questions, and pray hem to grounde their answers in reson and in holy writ; for els their answere wolde nought be worth, be it florished never so faire; and, as me think, men might skilfully axe thus of a frere. . frere, how many orders be in erthe, and which is the perfitest order? of what order art thou? who made thyn order? what is thy rule? is there ony perfiter rule than christ himselfe made? if christes rule be moost perfit, why rulest thou thee not therafter? without more, why shall a frere be more punished if he breke the rule that his patron made, than if he breke the hestes that god himself made? . approveth christ ony more religions than oon, that saynt james speketh of? if he approveth no more, why hast thou left his rule, and taken another? why is a frere apostata, that leveth his order and taketh another secte; sith there is but oon religion of christ? . why be ye wedded faster to your habits than a man is to his wyfe? for a man may leve his wyf for a yere or two, as many men do; and if +ye leve your habit a quarter of a yere, ye shuld be holden apostatas. . maketh youre habit you men of religion, or no? if it do, than, ever as it wereth, your religion wereth; and, after that the habit is better, is you[r] religion better. and whan ye liggen it besyde you, than lig ye youre religion besyde you, and ben apostatas. why by ye you so precious clothes, sith no man seketh such but for vaine glorie, as saynt gregory saith? . what betokeneth youre grete hood, your scaplerye, youre knotted girdel, and youre wyde cope? . why use ye al oon colour, more then other christen men do? what betokeneth that ye been clothed all in one maner clothinge? . if ye saye it betokeneth love and charitè, certes, than ye be ofte ypocrites, whan ony of you hateth other, and in that, that ye wollen be said holy by youre clothinge. . why may not a frere were clothing of an-other secte of freres, sith holines stondeth not in the clothes? . why holde ye silence in one howse more than in another; sith men ought over-al to speke the good and leve the evell? . why ete you flesh in one house more than in another, if youre rule and youre order be perfit, and the patron that made it? . why gette ye your dispensacions, to have it more esy? certes, either it semeth that ye be unperfit; or he, that made it so hard that ye may not holde it. and siker, if ye holde not the rule of youre patrons, ye be not than hir freres; and so ye lye upon youre-selves! . why make ye you as dede men whan ye be professed; and yet ye be not dede, but more quicke beggars than ye were before? and it semeth evell a deed man to go aboute and begge. . why will ye not suffer youre novices here your councels in youre chapter-house, er that they been professed; if youre councels been trew, and after god[d]es lawe? . why make ye you so costly houses to dwell in; sith christ did not so, and dede men shuld have but graves, as falleth to dede men? and yet ye have more gorgeous buildinges than many lordes of englonde. for ye maye wenden through the realme, and ech night, wel nigh, ligge in youre owne courtes; and so mow but right few lordes do. . why hyre ye to ferme youre limitors, gevinge therfore eche yeer a certain rente; and will not suffer oon in an-others limitacion, right as ye were your-selves lordes of contreys? . why be ye not under youre bisshops visitacions, and liege men to oure kinge? . why axe ye no letters of bretherhedes of other mens prayers, as ye desyre that other men shulde aske letters of you? . if youre letters be good, why graunte ye them not generally to al maner men, for the more charitè? . mow ye make ony man more perfit brother for your prayers, than god hath by oure beleve, by our baptyme and his owne graunte? if ye mowe, certes, than ye be above god. . why make ye men beleve that your golden trentall songe of you, to take therfore ten shillinges, or at the leest fyve shillinges, will bringe soules out of helle, or out of purgatorye? if this be sooth, certes, ye might bring all soules out of payne. and that wolle ye nought; and than ye be out of charitè. . why make ye men beleve, that he that is buried in youre habit shall never come in hell; and ye wite not of youre-selfe, whether ye shall to hell, or no? and if this were sooth, ye shulde selle youre high houses, to make many habites, for to save many mens soules. . why stele ye mens children for to make hem of youre secte; sith that theft is agaynst goddes heste; and sithe youre secte is not perfit? ye know not whether the rule that ye binde him to, be best for him or worst! . why undernime ye not your brethren, for their trespas after the lawe of the gospell; sith that underneminge is the best that may be? but ye put them in prison ofte, whan they do after goddes lawe; and, by saynt austines rule, if ony did amisse and wolde not amende him, ye should put him from you. . why covete ye shrifte, and burying of other mens parishens, and non other sacrament that falleth to christen folke? . why busie ye not to here shrifte of poore folke, as well as of riche lordes and ladyes; sith they mowe have more plentee of shrifte-fathers than poore folk may? . why saye ye not the gospel in houses of bedred men; as ye do in riche mens, that mowe go to churche and here the gospell? . why covette +ye not to burye poore folk among you; sith that they ben moost holy, as ye sayn that ye ben for youre povertee? . why will ye not be at hir diriges, as ye been at riche mens; sith god prayseth hem more than he doth riche men? . what is thy prayer worth; sith thou wilt take therefore? for of all chapmen ye nede to be moost wyse; for drede of symonye. . what cause hast thou that thou wilt not preche the gospell, as god sayeth that thou shuldest; sith it is the best lore, and also oure beleve? . why be ye evell apayed that secular prestes shulde preche the gospel; sith god him-selfe hath boden hem? . why hate ye the gospell to be preched; sith ye be so moche holde thereto? for ye winne more by yere with _in principio_, than with all the rules that ever youre patrons made. and, in this, minstrels been better than ye. for they contraryen not to the mirthes that they maken; but ye contraryen the gospell bothe in worde and dede. . frere, whan thou receivest a peny for to say a masse, whether sellest thou goddes body for that peny, or thy prayer, or els thy travail? if thou sayest thou wolt not travaile for to saye the masse but for the peny, +than certes, if this be soth, than thou lovest to littel mede for thy soule. and if thou sellest goddes body, other thy prayer, than it is very symony; and art become a chapman worse than judas, that solde it for thirty pens. . why wrytest thou hir names in thy tables, that yeveth thee moneye; sith god knoweth all thing? for it semeth, by thy wryting, that god wolde not rewarde him but thou wryte him in thy tables; god wolde els forgetten it. . why berest thou god in honde, and sclaundrest him that he begged for his mete; sith he was lord over all? for than hadde he ben unwyse to have begged, and no nede therto. . frere, after what law rulest thou thee? wher findest thou in goddes law that thou shuldest thus begge? . what maner men nedeth for to begge? of whom oweth suche men to begge? why beggest thou so for thy brethren? if thou sayest, for they have nede; than thou doest it for the more perfeccion, or els for the leest, or els for the mene. if it be the moost perfeccion of all, than shulde al thy brethren do so; and than no man neded to begge but for him-selfe, for so shuld no man begge but him neded. and if it be the leest perfeccion, why lovest thou than other men more than thy-selfe? for so thou art not well in charitè; sith thou shuldest seke the more perfeccion after thy power, livinge thy-selfe moost after god; and thus, leving that imperfeccion, thou shuldest not so begge for hem. and if it is a good mene thus to begge as thou doest, than shuld no man do so but they ben in this good mene; and yet such a mene, graunted to you, may never be grounded in goddes lawe; for than both lered and lewed that ben in mene degrè of this worlde shuld go aboute and begge as ye do. and if all suche shuld do so, certes, wel nigh al the world shuld go aboute and begge as ye do: and so shulde there be ten beggers agaynst oon yever. . why procurest thou men to yeve thee hir almes, and sayest it is so meedful; and thou wilt not thy-selfe winne thee that mede? . why wilt thou not begge for poore bedred men, that ben poorer than ony of youre secte, that liggen, and mow not go aboute to helpe themselves; sith we be all brethren in god, and that bretherhed passeth ony other that ye or ony man coude make? and where moost nede were, there were moost perfeccion; either els ye holde hem not youre pure brethren, or worse. but than ye be imperfite in your begginge. . why make ye you so many maisters among you; sith it is agaynst the techinge of christ and his apostels? . whos ben all your riche courtes that ye han, and all your riche jewels; sith ye sayen that ye han nought, in proper ne in comune? if ye sayn they ben the popes, why +geder ye then, of poore men and of lordes, so much out of the kinges honde to make your pope riche? and sith ye sayen that it is greet perfeccion to have nought, in proper ne in comune, why be ye so fast aboute to make the pope (that is your +fader) riche, and putte on him imperfeccion? sithen ye sayn that your goodes ben all his, and he shulde by reson be the moost perfit man, it semeth openlich that ye ben cursed children, so to sclaunder your +fader, and make him imperfit. and if ye sayn that tho goodes be yours, then do ye ayenst youre rule; and if it be not ayenst your rule, than might ye have both plough and cart, and labour as other good men don, and not so begge to by losengery, and ydell, as ye don. and if ye say that it is more perfeccion to begge than to travaill or worch with youre hand, why preche ye not openly, and teche all men to do so, sith it is the best and moost perfit lyf to helpe of her soules, as ye make children to begge that might have been riche heyres? . why make ye not your festes to poore men, and yeveth hem yeftes, as ye don to the riche; sith poore men han more nede than the riche? . what betokeneth that ye go tweyne and tweyne +togeder? if ye be out of charitè, ye accorden not in soule. . why begge ye, and take salaries therto, more than other prestes; sith he that moost taketh, most charge he hath? . why holde ye not saynt fraunces rule and his testament; sith fraunces saith, that god shewed him this living and this rule? and certes, if it were goddes will, the pope might not fordo it; or els fraunces was a lyar, that sayde on this wyse. and but this testament that he made accorde with goddes will, els erred he as a lyar that were out of charitè; and as the law sayeth, he is accursed that letteth the rightfull last will of a deed man lacke. and this testament is the last will of fraunces that is a deed man; it seemeth therefore that all his freres ben cursed. . why wil ye not touche no coined money with the crosse, ne with the kinges heed, as ye don other jewels both of golde and silver? certes, if ye despyse the crosse or the kinges heed, than ye be worthy to be despysed of god and the kinge. and sith ye will receyve money in your hertes and not with youre handes, it seemeth that ye holde more holinesse in your hondes than in your hertes; and than be ye false to god. . why have ye exempt you fro our kinges lawes and visitinge of our bishoppes more than other christen men that liven in this realme, if ye be not gilty of traitory to our realme, or trespassers to oure bishoppes? but ye will have the kinges lawes for trespas don to you; and ye wil have power of other bishops more than other prestes; and also have leave to prison youre brethren as lordes in youre courtes, more than other folkes han that ben the kinges lege men. . why shal some secte of you freres paye eche yere a certaine to hir generall provinciall or minister, or els to hir soverains, but-if he stele a certain number of children, as some men sayn? and certes, if this be soth, than be ye constrayned, upon certaine payne, to do thefte, agaynst goddes commaundement, _non furtum facies_. . why be ye so hardy, to graunte, by letters of fraternitè, to men and women, that they shall have part and merit of all your good dedes; and ye witen never whether god be apayed with youre dedes because of youre sinne? also ye witen never whether that man or woman be in state to be saved or damned; than shall he have no merit in heven for his owne dedes, ne for none other mans. and all were it so, that he shuld have part of youre good dedes; yet shulde he have no more than god would geve him, after that he were worthy; and so much shall eche man have of goddes yefte, withoute youre limitacion. but if ye will saye that ye ben goddes felowes, and that he may not do without youre assent, than be ye blasphemers to god. . what betokeneth that ye have ordeined, that when such oon as ye have mad youre brother or sister, and hath a letter of your sele, that letter +mot be brought in youre holy chapter and there be red; or els ye will not praye for him? but and ye willen not praye specially for all other that weren not mad youre brethren or sistren, than were ye not in right charitè; for that ought to be commune, and namely in goostly thinges. . frere, what charitè is this--to overcharge the people by mighty begginge, under colour of prechinge or praying or masses singing? sith holy writ biddeth not thus, but even the contrary; for al such goostly dedes shulde be don freely, as god yeveth hem freely. . frere, what charitè is this--to begyle children or they commen to discrecion, and binde hem to youre orders, that been not grounded in goddes lawe, against hir frendes wil? sithen by this foly ben many apostatas, both in will and dede, and many ben apostatas in hir will during all hir lyfe, that wolde gladly be discharged if they wist how; and so, many ben apostatas that shulden in other states have ben trewe men. . frere, what charitè is this--to make so mony freres in every countrey, to the charge of the people? sith persounes and vicares alone, ye, secular prestes alone, ye, monkes and chanons alone, with bishops above hem, were y-nough to the church, to do prestes office. and to adde mo than y-nough is a foul errour, and greet charge to the people; and this is openly against goddes will, that ordeined all thinges to be don in weight, nomber, and mesure. and christ himself was apayed with twelve apostles and a few disciples, to preche and do prestes office to all the hole world; than was it better don than it is now at this tyme by a thousand deel. and right so as foure fingers with a thumbe in a mannes hande, helpeth a man to worche, and double nomber of fingers in one hond shuld lette him more; and the more nomber that there were, passing the mesure of goddes ordinaunce, the more were a man letted to worke: right so, as it semeth, it is of these newe orders that ben added to the church, without grounde of holy writ and goddes ordinaunce. . frere, what charitè is this--to lye to the people, and saye that ye folowe christ in povertè more than other men don? and yet, in curious and costly howsinge, and fyne and precious clothing, and delicious and lykinge fedinge, and in tresoure and jewels and riche ornamentes, freres passen lordes and other riche worldly men; and soonest they shuld bringe hir cause aboute, be it never so costly, though goddes lawe be put abacke. . frere, what charitè is this--to +gader up the bokes of holy writ and putte hem in tresory, and so emprisoune hem from secular prestes and curates; and by this cautel lette hem to preche the gospell freely to the people without worldly mede; and also to defame good prestes of heresy, and lyen on hem openly, for to lette hem to shew goddes lawe, by the holy gospell, to the christen people? . frere, what charitè is this--to fayn so much holines in your bodily clothing, that ye clepe your habit, that many blinde foles desyren to dye therin more than in an-other? and also, that a frere that leveth his habit (late founden of men), may not be assoiled till he take it again, but is an apostata, as ye sayn, and cursed of god and man both? the frere beleveth treuth and pacience, chastitè, mekenesse, and sobrietè; yet for the more part of his lyfe he may soone be assoiled of his prior; and if he bringe hoom to his house much good by yere, be it never so falsly begged and pilled of the poore and nedy people in courtes aboute, he shal be hold[en] a noble frere! o lord, whether this be charitè! . frere, what charitè is this--to prese upon a riche man, and to entyce him to be buried among you from his parish-church, and to suche riche men geve letters of fraternitè confirmed by youre generall sele, and therby to bere him in honde that he shall have part of all your masses, matins, prechinges, fastinges, wakinges, and all other good dedes don by your brethren of youre order (both whyles he liveth and after that he is deed), and yet ye witen never whether youre dedes be acceptable to god, ne whether that man that hath that letter be able by good living to receive ony part of youre dedes? and yet a poore man, that ye wite wel or supposen in certain to have no good of, ye ne geve no such letters, though he be a better man to god than suche a riche man; nevertheles, this poore man doth not recche therof. for, as men supposen, suche letters and many other that freres behesten to men, be full of false deceites of freres, out of reson and god[d]es lawe and christen mens faith. . frere, what charitè is this--to be confessoures of lordes and ladyes, and to other mighty men, and not amend hem in hir living; but rather, as it semeth, to be the bolder to pille hir poore tenauntes and to live in lechery, and there to dwelle in your office of confessour, for winning of worldly goodes, and to be holden grete by colour of suche goostly offices? this seemeth rather pryde of freres than charitè of god. . frere, what charitè is this--to sayn that who-so liveth after youre order, liveth most parfitly, and next foloweth the state of aposteles in povertè and penaunce; and yet the wysest and gretest clerkes of you wende, or sende, or procure to the court of rome to be mad cardinales or bishoppes or the popes chapelayns, and to be assoiled of the vowe of povertè and obedience to your ministers; in the which, as ye sayn, standeth moost perfeccion and merite of youre orders? and thus ye faren as pharisees, that sayen oon, and do another to the contrarye. . why name ye more the patron of youre order in youre _confiteor_, whan ye beginne masse, than other saintes, as apostels, or marters, that holy churche holde[th] more glorious than hem, and clepe hem youre patrons and youre avowries? . frere, whet[h]er was saint fraunces, in making of his rule that he sette thyne order in, a fole and lyar, or els wyse and trew? if ye sayn that he was not a fole but wyse; ne a lyar, but trew; why shewe ye the contrary by youre doing, whan by youre suggestion to the pope ye said that fraunces rule was mad so hard that ye might not live to holde it without declaracion and dispensacion of the pope? and so, by youre dede, ye lete your patron a fole, that made a rule so hard that no man may wel kepe [it]; and eke youre dede proveth him a lyar, where he sayeth in his rule, that he took and lerned it of the holy gooste. for how might ye, for shame, praye the pope to undo that the holy goost biddeth, as whan ye prayed him to dispense with the hardnesse of your order? . frere, which of the foure orders of freres is best, to a man that knoweth not which is the beste, but wolde fain enter into the beste and none other? if thou sayest that thyn is the best, than sayest thou that noon of the other is as good as thyn; and in this eche frere in the three other orders wolle say that thou lyest; for in the selve maner eche other frere woll say that his order is beste. and thus to eche of the foure orders ben the other three contrary in this poynte; in the which if ony say sooth, that is oon aloon; for there may but oon be the beste of foure. so foloweth it, that if ech of these orders answered to this question as thou doest, three were false and but oon trew; and yet no man shulde wite who that were. and thus it semeth, that the moost part of freres ben or shulde be lyars in this poynt, and they shulde answere therto. if +ye say that an-other ordre of the freres is better than thyn or as good; why toke ye not rather therto as to the better, whan thou mightest have chosen at the beginning? and eke, why shuldest thou be an apostata, to leve thyn order and take thee to that that is better? and so, why goest thou not from thyn order into that? . frere, is there ony perfiter rule of religion than christ, goddes sone, gave in his gospell to his brethren, or than that religion that saynt james in his epistle maketh mencion of? if +ye saye 'yes,' than puttest thou on christ, that is wysdom of god the +fader, uncunning, unpower, or evil will. for eyther than he coude not make his rule so good as an-other did his, (and so he hadde be uncunning, that he might not make his rule so good as another man might, and so were he unmighty and not god); or he wolde not make his rule so perfit as an-other did his (and so had he ben evill-willed, namely to himselfe!) for if he might, and coude, and wold[e] have mad a rule perfit without defaute, and did not, he was not goddes sone almighty. for if ony other rule be perfiter than christes, than must christes rule lacke of that perfeccion by as much as the other were more perfiter; and so were defaute, and christ had failed in makinge of his rule. but to putte ony defaute or failinge in god, is blasphemy. if thou saye that christes rule and that religion that saynt james maketh mencion of, is the perfitest; why holdest thou not than thilke rule without more? and why clepest thou thee rather of saynt frances or saynt dominiks rule or religion or order, than of christes rule or christes order? . frere, canst thou assigne ony defaute in christes rule of the gospell, with the whiche he taught al men sikerly to be saved, if they kepte it to hir endinge? if thou saye it was to hard, than sayest thou that christ lyed; for he saide of his rule: 'my yoke is softe, and my burthen light.' if thou saye christes rule was to light, that may be assigned for no defaute, for the better may it be kept. if thou sayst that there is no defaute in christes rule of the gospell, sith christ him-selfe saith it is light and esy: what nede was it to patrons of freres to adde more therto, and so to make an harder religion, to save freres, than was the religion that christes apostels and his disciples helden and weren saved by; but-if they wolden that her freres saten above the apostels in heven, for the harder religion that they kepen here? and so wolde they sitten in heven above christ himselfe for the moo and strait observaunces; than so shulde they be better than christ himselfe, with misc[h]aunce! go now forth, and frayne youre clerkes, and grounde you in goddes lawe, and geve jack answere. and whan ye han assoiled me that i have said, sadly in treuth, i shall soill thee of thyn order, and save thee to heven! if freres cunne not or mow not excuse hem of these questions asked of hem, it semeth that they be horrible gilty against god and hir even-christen; for which gyltes and defautes it were worthy that the order that they calle hir order were for-don. and it is wonder that men susteyne hem or suffer hem live in suche maner. for holy writ biddeth that thou do well to the meke, and geve not to the wicked, but forbid to geve hem breed, lest they be mad thereby mightier through you. finis. ¶ prynted for jhon gough. cum priuilegio regali. _from_ c. (= printed copy in caius coll. library, cambridge); _i give here rejected spellings; readings marked_ sp. _are from_ speght. . walkyn. deceauen. , , . bene (_for_ been; _very often_). . folke. founde. . kynreddes. . grasse, nether nething (_sic_). . onely. her lyfes. . had; sp. han. . hym (_for_ hem). wreches. . -selfes. . the. . teacheth. don. . not; sp. nought. dyspleasynge. harme. . because (sp. that). . greatest. . reason. write. . not; sp. nought. . earthe. . thyne. . perfyte. . the. . break. . breake. . one. . speaketh. mor; sp. more. lef; sp. left. . leaueth. . one. . christe. . abytes; sp. habits. . leaue. wyfe. yeare. . you; _read_ ye. leaue. abyte; sp. habit. yeare. . abyte; sp. habit. . weareth (_twice_). . the abbyte; sp. your habit. . apostatase; sp. apostataes. by; sp. buy. . greate hoode. . coape. . one coloure. . bene. . sayde. clotynge (!). . maye. weare clothynge. . sp. _om._ in _before_ another. . speake. leaue. . eate. . easy. . ether; sp. either. vnperfyte. . harde. seker; sp. siker. . her. . selfes. . ye you; sp. _om._ ye (!). , . deade (_twice_). beggers; sp. beggars. ye; sp. you. . deade. . heare. . eare; sp. ere. sp. haue ben (c. _om._ haue). . sp. falleth it to. , . deade (_twice_). . gorgeous buyldi_n_ges; sp. courts. . maye; sp. now (_error for_ mow). . welnygh; sp. will (!). . here; sp. heire (_read_ hyre). geuynge. . yeare. certayne. one. . sp. of men. . perfyte. sp. brether (!). . baptyme; sp. baptisme. . sp. _om._ the. least. . oute. , . south; sp. sooth. . abyte; sp. habit. . abytes. . steale. . wether; sp. whether. . vndermyne (_for_ vndernyme); sp. vnderneme. . maye. presonne; sp. prison. . sp. augustines. dyd; sp. doe. . buryenge. . none. . heare; sp. heare to. . plentie. . folke maye. . heare. . _both_ you. folke amonge. . sayne. . pouertye. . her. bene. . sp. other (_for_ riche). . sp. _om._ of. . wylte. preache. . payed; sp. apaid. preache. . gosgel (!). sp. bodden. hym; sp. hem. . preached. . yeare. . myrtes; sp. mirths. . sp. thy; c. _om._ (_before_ prayer). . sp. that certes (_error for_ than certes); c. & certes. . her. the. . thynge. . sp. writest; sp. _om._ him. . sp. forgotten (!). . bearest. . meate. . the. . c. of; sp. for. . perfection (_but_ perfeccion _in l._ ). least. meane (_often_). . least. . arte. . charytye. sithe. . leauynge. . sp. them (_for_ hem). . doeste. . learned and lewd; sp. lerid and leaud. . sp. _om._ suche. . one. . the here. . c. medefull; sp. needful. the. . themselfes. . coulde. . hym; sp. them (_read_ hem). c. or; sp. but. . amonge. . teachynge. . whose. rych. . yewels; sp. iewels. improper ne; sp. ne in proper ne in. . cumune; sp. common. sayne. gether; sp. gather. . sp. _om._ of. . great. . in p_ro_per ne comune; sp. in proper be (!) in common. . father rych. put. . reason. perfite. . father. . imperfyte. sayne. sp. the (_for_ tho). . carte. done. . lesyngery; sp. losengery. done. . preach. teach. . perfyte lyfe. . be; sp. bin. . feastes. . done. rych. . together. . charitie. . sp. _om. nd_ he. . c. as; sp. is (!) charytie. . sp. accursed; c. cursede. c. _om._ last. dead. . sp. _om._ lacke. least; sp. last. . dead. c. _om._ therefore. . hedde. done. . heade. . receaue. , . hartes (_twice_). . sp. _om._ ye. . exempte. . gyltye. traytery. trespasers. . sp. your (_for_ oure). sp. the trespasse (_for_ trespas). . done. . eche yeare; sp. ech a yere. . her (_twice_). . steale. certayne. sayne. . merite. . whyther; sp. whether. payde; sp. apayed. . weten; sp. witten. . meryte. heauen. . man (_for_ mans, s _having dropped out_); sp. mans. . ye (_for_ he); sp. he. . folowes; sp. fellowes. maye. . tokeneth; sp. betokeneth. . one. made. . seale. mought (_read_ mot). . redde; sp. rad. sp. and but. . sp. _om. st_ not. specyally; sp. especially. made. . co_m_mne (!). goostely; sp. ghostly. . myghtie. coloure. preachynge. prayeng. . write. . done frely. . frely. . him; sp. hem. . her. - . apostatase; sp. apostataes. . personnes. . him; sp. them. . foule. greate. . done. . measure. payd; sp. apaied. . preache. . sp. whole. sp. _om. nd_ it. . deal; sp. dele. . let. sp. and so the (_om._ so). . measure. . wryte. . pouertye. done. . treasoure. . rych. . wordly; sp. worldly. bring her. . costely. abake; sp. abacke. . gather (_read_ gader). . wryte. put. emprysonne. . let. him; sp. hem. . preache. frely. wordely; sp. worldly. . let. . fayn. . bodely. , . abyte; sp. habit. . leaueth. , . maye. . sp. _om._ an. sayne. . parte. . home. by yeare; sp. by the yeare. . courtes &; sp. countries (_perhaps better_). . c. sp. hold (_for_ holden). . _both_ prease. . seale. beare. . parte. preachynges. . done. . dead. . receaue. . certaine. . no; sp. to (!). . rych. reche; sp. retch. . behesten; sp. behoten. reason; sp. all reason. . laydes (_for_ ladyes). her. . pyl her. . dwel. . greate. . coloure. . mooste perfytely. . wyseste. . greatest clarkes. . made. . chappelaynes. povertye. . one. . hol (_for_ holy); sp. holy. holde; sp. hold (_read_ holdeth). them. . set. . sayne. . shew. . c. that fraunces rule was made so harde; sp. that your rule that francis made was so hard. c. might; sp. mow. . harde. maye. _supply_ it. . toke. . learned. . sp. _om._ to. c. byddeth; sp. bit. sp. when; c. _om._ . fayne. . thyne. . none. thyne. , . thre. . c. selfe; sp. self same. . one. . alone. one. . thre. one. . _both_ you; _read_ ye. . thine. . apostate; sp. apostata. leaue. . the. . sonne. . _both_ you; _read_ ye. wysdome. . father vncunyng. sp. _om._ eyther. , . coulde (_twice_). . sp. had he. . perfyte. . made. perfyte. . defate; sp. default. sonne. . weren. . put. . c. that saynt; sp. which saint. the perfytest; sp. perfectest. . sp. _om._ than. . the (_read_ thee). . sp. any default or (!) assigne. . sekerly; sp. sikerly. . her. harde. . easye. . mor; sp. more. . that; sp. of (!). , . heauen (_twice_). . christe. . fraye_n_ (_for_ frayne); sp. fraine. . c. ye in; sp. ye you in (_read_ you in). . sayde. _read_--and whan ye han soiled that i saide, sadly in treuthe. . soyll the. thyne. order; sp. orders. the; sp. thee. heauen. . c. cunne; sp. kun. . her. . her. fordone. . hem lyue; sp. hir live. . wryte. . bread leste. . made. sp. _om._ finis. * * * * * iv. john gower unto the worthy and noble kinge henry the fourth. o noble worthy king, henry the ferthe, in whom the gladde fortune is befalle the people to governe here upon erthe, god hath thee chose, in comfort of us alle; the worship of this land, which was doun falle, now stant upright, through grace of thy goodnesse, which every man is holde for to blesse. the highe god, of his justyce alone, the right which longeth to thy regalye declared hath to stande in thy persone; and more than god may no man justifye. thy title is knowe upon thyn auncestrye; the londes folk hath eek thy right affermed; so stant thy regne, of god and man confermed. ther is no man may saye in other wyse that god him-self ne hath the right declared; wherof the land is boun to thy servyse, which for defaute of helpe hath longe cared. but now ther is no mannes herte spared to love and serve, and worche thy plesaunce; and al this is through goddes purveyaunce. in alle thing which is of god begonne ther foloweth grace, if it be wel governed; thus tellen they whiche olde bokes conne, wherof, my lord, i wot wel thou art lerned. aske of thy god; so shalt thou nat be werned of no request [the] whiche is resonable; for god unto the goode is favorable. king salomon, which hadde at his askinge of god, what thing him was levest to crave, he chees wysdom unto the governinge of goddes folk, the whiche he wolde save; and as he chees, it fil him for to have; for through his wit, whyl that his regne laste, he gat him pees and reste, unto the laste. but alisaundre, as telleth his historie, unto the god besoughte in other weye, of al the worlde to winne the victorie, so that under his swerde it might[e] obeye; in werre he hadde al that he wolde preye. the mighty god behight[e] him that behest; the world he wan, and hadde it of conquest. but though it fil at thilke tyme so, that alisaundre his asking hath acheved, this sinful world was al[le] payën tho; was noon whiche hath the highe god beleved; no wonder was, though thilke world was greved. though a tyraunt his purpos mighte winne, al was vengeaunce, and infortune of sinne. but now the faith of crist is come a-place among the princes in this erthe here, it sit hem wel to do pitè and grace, but yet it mot be tempred in manere. for as they fynden cause in the matere upon the poynt, what afterward betyde, the lawe of right shal nat be layd a-syde. so may a king of werre the viage ordayne and take, as he therto is holde, to clayme and aske his rightful heritage in alle places wher it is with-holde. but other-wyse, if god him-selve wolde afferme love and pees bitween the kinges, pees is the beste, above alle erthly thinges. good is t'eschewe werre, and nathelees a king may make werre upon his right; for of bataile the fynal ende is pees; thus stant the lawe, that a worthy knight upon his trouthe may go to the fight. but-if so were that he mighte chese, betre is the pees of which may no man lese. to stere pees oughte every man on-lyve, first, for to sette his liege lord in reste, and eek these othre men, that they ne stryve; for so this land may standen atte beste. what king that wolde be the worthieste, the more he mighte our deedly werre cese, the more he shulde his worthinesse encrese. pees is the cheef of al the worldes welthe, and to the heven it ledeth eek the way; pees is of soule and lyfe the mannes helthe of pestilence, and doth the werre away. my liege lord, tak hede of that i say, if werre may be left, tak pees on honde, which may nat be withoute goddes sonde. with pees stant every crëature in reste, withoute pees ther may no lyf be glad; above al other good, pees is the beste; pees hath him-self, whan werre is al bestad; the pees is sauf, the werre is ever adrad. pees is of al[le] charitè the keye, whiche hath the lyf and soule for to weye. my liege lord, if that thee list to seche the sothe ensamples, what the werre hath wrought, thou shalt wel here, of wyse mennes speche, that deedly werre tourneth in-to nought. for if these olde bokes be wel sought, ther might thou see what thing the werre hath do bothe of conquest and conquerour also. for vayne honóur, or for the worldes good, they that whylom the stronge werres made, wher be they now? bethink wel, in thy mood, the day is goon, the night is derke and fade; hir crueltè, which made hem thanne glade, they sorowen now, and yet have naught the more; the blood is shad, which no man may restore. the werre is moder of the wronges alle; it sleeth the preest in holy chirche at masse, forlyth the mayde, and doth her flour to falle. the werre maketh the grete citee lasse, and doth the lawe his reules overpasse. ther is nothing, wherof mescheef may growe whiche is not caused of the werre, i trowe. the werre bringth in póverte at his heles, wherof the comun people is sore greved; the werre hath set his cart on thilke wheles wher that fortune may not be beleved. for whan men wene best to have acheved, ful ofte it is al newe to beginne; the werre hath nothing siker, thogh he winne. for-thy, my worthy prince, in cristes halve, as for a part whos fayth thou hast to gyde, ley to this olde sore a newe salve, and do the werre away, what-so betyde. purchace pees, and sette it by thy syde, and suffre nat thy people be devoured; so shal thy name ever after stande honóured! if any man be now, or ever was ayein the pees thy prevy counsaylour, let god be of thy counsayl in this cas, and put away the cruel werreyour. for god, whiche is of man the creatour, he wolde not men slowe his crëature withoute cause of deedly forfayture. wher nedeth most, behoveth most to loke; my lord, how so thy werres be withoute, of tyme passed who that hede toke, good were at home to see right wel aboute; for evermore the worste is for to doute. but, if thou mightest parfit pees attayne, ther shulde be no cause for to playne. aboute a king, good counsayl is to preyse above al othre thinges most vailable; but yet a king within him-self shal peyse and seen the thinges that be resonable. and ther-upon he shal his wittes stable among the men to sette pees in evene, for love of him whiche is the king of hevene. a! wel is him that shedde never blood but-if it were in cause of rightwysnesse! for if a king the peril understood what is to slee the people, thanne, i gesse, the deedly werres and the hevinesse wher-of the pees distourbed is ful ofte, shulde at som tyme cesse and wexe softe. o king! fulfilled of grace and of knighthode, remembre upon this poynt, for cristes sake; if pees be profred unto thy manhode, thyn honour sauf, let it nat be forsake! though thou the werres darst wel undertake, after resoun yet temper thy corage; for lyk to pees ther is non avauntage. my worthy lord, thenk wel, how-so befalle of thilke lore, as holy bokes sayn; crist is the heed, and we be membres alle, as wel the subject as the soverayn. so sit it wel, that charitè be playn, whiche unto god him-selve most accordeth, so as the lore of cristes word recordeth. in th'olde lawe, or crist him-self was bore, among the ten comaundëments, i rede, how that manslaughter shulde be forbore; such was the wil, that tyme, of the godhede. but afterward, whan crist took his manhede, pees was the firste thing he leet do crye ayenst the worldes rancour and envye. and, or crist wente out of this erthe here, and stigh to heven, he made his testament, wher he bequath to his disciples there and yaf his pees, which is the foundement of charitè, withouten whos assent the worldes pees may never wel be tryed, ne lovë kept, ne lawë justifyed. the jewes with the payens hadden werre, but they among hem-self stode ever in pees; why shulde than our pees stonde out of herre, which crist hath chose unto his owne encrees? for crist is more than was moÿses; and crist hath set the parfit of the lawe, the whiche shulde in no wyse be withdrawe. to yeve us pees was causë why crist dyde, withoute pees may nothing stonde avayled; but now a man may see on every syde how cristes fayth is every day assayled, with the payens distroyed, and so batayled that, for defaute of helpe and of defence, unneth hath crist his dewe reverence. the righte fayth to kepe of holy chirche the firste poynt is named of knighthode; and every man is holde for to wirche upon the poynt that stant to his manhode. but now, alas! the fame is spred so brode that every man this thing [alday] complayneth; and yet is ther no man that help ordayneth. the worldes cause is wayted over-al; ther be the werres redy, to the fulle; but cristes owne cause in special, ther ben the swerdes and the speres dulle. and with the sentence of the popes bulle as for to doon the folk payën obeye, the chirche is tourned al another weye. it is wonder, above any mannes wit, withoute werre how cristes fayth was wonne; and we that been upon this erthë yit ne kepe it nat as it was first begonne. to every crëature under the sonne crist bad him-self, how that we shulde preche, and to the folke his evangely teche. more light it is to kepe than to make; but that we founden mad to-fore the hond we kepe nat, but lete it lightly slake; the pees of crist hath al to-broke his bond. we reste our-self, and suffren every lond to slee eche other as thing undefended; so stant the werre, and pees is nat amended. but though the heed of holy chirche above ne do nat al his hole businesse among the men to sette pees and love, these kinges oughten, of hir rightwysnesse, hir owne cause among hem-self redresse. thogh peters ship, as now, hath lost his stere, it lyth in hem that barge for to stere. if holy chirche after the dewetè of cristes word ne be nat al avysed to make pees, accord, and unitè among the kinges that be now devysed, yet, natheles, the lawë stant assysed of mannes wit, to be so resonable withoute that to stande hem-selve stable. of holy chirche we ben children alle, and every child is holde for to bowe unto the moder, how that ever it falle, or elles he mot reson disalowe. and, for that cause, a knight shal first avowe the right of holy chirche to defende, that no man shal the privilege offende. thus were it good to setten al in evene the worldes princes and the prelats bothe, for love of him whiche is the king of hevene; and if men shulde algate wexen wrothe, the sarazins, whiche unto crist ben lothe, let men be armed ayenst hem to fighte, so may the knight his dede of armes righte. upon three poynts stant cristes pees oppressed; first, holy chirche is in her-self devyded; which oughte, of reson, first to be redressed; but yet so high a cause is nat decyded. and thus, whan humble pacience is pryded, the remenaunt, which that they shulde reule, no wonder is, though it stande out of reule. of that the heed is syk, the limmes aken; these regnes, that to cristes pees belongen, for worldes good, these deedly werres maken, which helpelees, as in balaunce, hongen. the heed above hem hath nat underfongen to sette pees, but every man sleeth other; and in this wyse hath charitè no brother. the two defautes bringen in the thridde of miscreants, that seen how we debate; between the two, they fallen in a-midde wher now al-day they fynde an open gate. lo! thus the deedly werre stant al-gate. but ever i hopë of king henries grace, that he it is which shal the pees embrace. my worthy noble prince, and king anoynt, whom god hath, of his grace, so preserved, behold and see the world upon this poynt, as for thy part, that cristes pees be served. so shal thy highe mede be reserved to him, whiche al shal quyten atte laste; for this lyf herë may no whyle laste. see alisandre, hector, and julius, see machabeus, david, and josuë, see charlemayne, godfray, and arthus fulfild of werre and of mortalitee! hir fame abit, but al is vanitee; for deth, whiche hath the werres under fote, hath mad an ende, of which ther is no bote. so may a man the sothe wite and knowe, that pees is good for every king to have; the fortune of the werre is ever unknowe, but wher pees is, ther ben the marches save. that now is up, to-morwe is under grave. the mighty god hath alle grace in honde; withouten him, men may nat longe stonde. of the tenetz to winne or lese a chace may no lyf wite, or that the bal be ronne; al stant in god, what thing men shal purchace: th'ende is in him, or that it be begonne; men sayn, the wolle, whan it is wel sponne, doth that the cloth is strong and profitable, and elles it may never be durable. the worldes chaunces upon aventure ben ever set; but thilke chaunce of pees is so behovely to the crëature that it above al other is peerlees. but it may nat +be gete, nathelees, among the men to lasten any whyle, but wher the herte is playn, withoute gyle. the pees is as it were a sacrament to-fore the god, and shal with wordes playne withouten any double entendëment be treted; for the trouthe can nat feyne. but if the men within hem-self be vayne, the substaunce of the pees may nat be trewe, but every day it chaungeth upon newe. but who that is of charitè parfyte, he voydeth alle sleightes fer aweye, and set his word upon the same plyte wher that his herte hath founde a siker weye; and thus, whan conscience is trewly weye, and that the pees be handled with the wyse, it shal abyde and stande, in alle wyse. th'apostel sayth, ther may no lyf be good whiche is nat grounded upon charitè; for charitè ne shedde never blood. so hath the werre, as ther, no propertè; for thilke vertue which is sayd 'pitè' with charitè so ferforth is acquaynted that in her may no fals sembla[u]nt be paynted. cassodore, whos wryting is authorysed sayth: 'wher that pitè regneth, ther is grace'; through which the pees hath al his welthe assysed, so that of werre he dredeth no manace. wher pitè dwelleth, in the same place ther may no deedly crueltè sojourne wherof that mercy shulde his wey[e] tourne. to see what pitè, forth with mercy, doth, the cronique is at rome, in thilke empyre of constantyn, which is a tale soth, whan him was lever his owne deth desyre than do the yonge children to martyre. of crueltee he lefte the quarele; pitè he wroughte, and pitè was his hele. for thilke mannes pitè which he dede god was pitous, and made him hool at al; silvester cam, and in the same stede yaf him baptyme first in special, which dide away the sinne original, and al his lepre it hath so purifyed, that his pitè for ever is magnifyed. pitè was cause why this emperour was hool in body and in soule bothe; and rome also was set in thilke honour of cristes fayth, so that the leve, of lothe whiche hadden be with crist tofore wrothe, receyved werë unto cristes lore. thus shal pitè be praysed evermore. my worthy liege lord, henry by name, which engëlond hast to governe and righte, men oughten wel thy pitè to proclame, which openliche, in al the worldes sighte, is shewed, with the helpe of god almighte, to yeve us pees, which long hath be debated, wherof thy prys shal never be abated. my lord, in whom hath ever yet be founde pitè, withoute spotte of violence, keep thilke pees alway, withinne bounde, which god hath planted in thy conscience. so shal the cronique of thy pacience among the saynts be take in-to memórie to the loënge of perdurable glorie. and to thyn erthely prys, so as i can, whiche every man is holde to commende, i gower, which am al thy liege man, this lettre unto thyn excellence i sende, as i, whiche ever unto my lyves ende wol praye for the stat of thy persone, in worshipe of thy sceptre and of thy trone. nat only to my king of pees i wryte, but to these othre princes cristen alle, that eche of hem his owne herte endyte and cese the werre, or more mescheef falle. set eek the rightful pope upon his stalle; keep charitè, and draw pitè to honde, maynteyne lawe; and so the pees shal stonde. explicit carmen de pacis commendacione, quod ad laudem et memoriam serenissimi principis domini regis henrici quarti, suus humilis orator johannes gower composuit. electus christi, pie rex henrice, fuisti, qui bene venisti, cum propria regna petisti; tu mala vicisti -que bonis bona restituisti, et populo tristi nova gaudia contribuisti. est mihi spes lata, quod adhuc per te renovata succedent fata veteri probitate beata; est tibi nam grata gratia sponte data. henrici quarti primus regni fuit annus quo mihi defecit visus ad acta mea. omnia tempus habent, finem natura ministrat, quem virtute sua frangere nemo potest. ultra posse nihil, quamvis mihi velle remansit, amplius ut scribam non mihi posse manet. dum potui, scripsi, sed nunc quia curua senectus turbauit sensus, scripta relinquo scolis. scribat qui veniet post me discretior alter, ammodo namque manus et mea penna silent. hoc tamen in fine verborum queso meorum, prospera quod statuat regna futura deus. ¶ _explicit._ _from_ th. (thynne, ed. .); _corrected by_ t. (trentham ms.) _i give the rejected spellings of_ th. (thynne), _except where they are corrected by the_ ms. . t. worthi noble. . t. _om._ here. . _both_ the. t. chose; th. chosen. . t. regalie; th. regaly. . t. iustifie; th. iustify. . t. ancestrie; th. auncestry. . t. boun; th. bounde. . t. wirche. . t. axe; th. aske. . t. reqwest; th. request. (_perhaps read_--of no request the whiche is resonable.) . t. axinge; th. askyng. . th. _om._ to. . t. ches; th. chase. th. _om._ the. . t. ches; th. chase. . t. gat; th. gate. t. pes; th. peace. _so_ t.; th. in-to his last. . t. histoire; th. storie. . t. might; th. myght. . _both_ behight. t. beheste. . th. _om._ he. _both_ had. t. conqweste. . t. axinge. t. achieued; th. atcheued. . _both_ al. t. paiene; th. paynem. . t. belieued. . t. grieued. . t. mihte; th. might. . t. feith; th. faithe. . t. mot; th. must. . th. _om._ as. . t. leid; th. layde. . t. viage: th. voyage. . t. axe. . t. silve; th. selfe. , . t. pes; th. peace. . t. betre; th. better. . _both_ peace. t. euery man; th. eueriche. t. alyue. . th. lande; t. world. . t. cesse; th. cease. . t. encresse; th. encrease. . t. chief; th. chefe. , , . t. weie, aweie, seie. . _both_ lefte. . _both_ al. . _both_ the. . t. that; th. what. . t. soght; th. ysought. . _both_ se. . t. conqueste. . t. bethenk. . _both_ gone. . _both_ her. . t. _om._ doth; th. dothe. . _both_ dothe. t. reules; th. rules. . t. meschef; th. myschefe. . t. bringth; th. bringeth. . t. comon; th. co_m_men. . t. to; th. be. . t. lete; th. lette. . th. crewel warryour. . th. slough. . t. than; th. that. . _both_ se. . t. euene; th. euyn. . t. heuene; th. heuyn. . t. ha. . th. _om._ the. . th. _om. nd_ of. . t. reson; th. reason. . t. thenke; th. thynke. . t. the subiit; th. be subiecte. . t. er. . t. aftirwards; th. afterwarde. . t. let; th. lette. . t. er. . th. styghed. . t. paiens; th. paynyms. . th. erre (!). . t. sen; th. se. . th. paynems. t. destruied. . th. that; t. which. . t. helas; t. sprad. . _i supply_ alday. . th. that; t. which. . t. do; th. done. t. paien; th. payne (_for_ payen). . t. to wonder; th. wonder. _for_ any _read_ a? . th. _om._ how. . t. euangile. . _both_ made. th. _om._ the. . th. selfe; t. selue. . t. men; th. people. . th. the (_for_ that). . th. dewte; t. duete. . t. hem-selue; th. him-selfe. . th. must. . t. _om._ good. t. euene; th. euyn. . t. heuene; th. heuyn. . _both_ thre. . th. _om._ is. . _both_ highe. . t. sick; th. sicke. . th. helplesse; t. heliples. . _both_ betwene. . t. enoignt. . _both_ beholde; se. . th. deserved (!). . _both_ lyfe. . t. ector. . t. machabeu. . t. godefroi arthus. . _both_ made. . t. mai; th. many (!). . t. man (_for_ king). . th. is (_for_ ben). . t. _om._ up. . t. tenetz; th. tennes. , . t. er (_for_ or). . th. is (_for_ it). th. _om._ is. t. piereles; th. peerles. . _both_ begete; _read_ be gete. . t. perfit. . t. plit. . th. these (_for_ the pees). th. ben. . t. proprite. . _both_ semblant. . t. cassodre. _both_ writinge. t. auctorized. . th. _om._ ther. . t. wei; th. way. . _both_ se. . t. crualte; th. creweltie. . t. baptisme. . th. england. . t. seintz; th. sayntes. t. memoire; th. memory. . t. loenge; th. legende (!). t. gloire; th. glory. . th. _om. nd_ of. _both_ throne. . t. sese (_for_ cese); th. se (!). t. er (_for_ or). t. meschiefe; th. myschefe. . _both_ sette. . t. draugh. . t. maintene; th. maynteyn. . th. curua; t. torua. * * * * * v. thomas hoccleve. the letter of cupid. litera cupidinis, dei amoris, directa subditis suis amatoribus. cupido, unto whos comaundëment the gentil kinrede of goddes on hy and people infernal been obedient, and mortel folk al serven besily, the goddesse sonë cithera soothly, to alle tho that to our deitee ben sugets, hertly greting sende we! in general, we wolë that ye knowe that ladies of honour and reverence, and other gentil women, haven sowe such seed of compleynt in our audience of men that doon hem outrage and offence, that it our eres greveth for to here; so pitous is th'effect of this matere. passing al londes, on the litel yle that cleped is albion they most compleyne; they seyn, that there is croppe and rote of gyle. so conne tho men dissimulen and feyne with stonding dropes in hir eyen tweyne, when that hir hertes feleth no distresse, to blinden women with hir doublenesse. hir wordes spoken ben so syghingly, with so pitousë chere and contenaunce, that every wight that meneth trewely demeth that they in herte have such grevaunce; they seyn so importáble is hir penaunce that, but hir lady lust to shewe hem grace, they right anoon +mot sterven in the place. 'a, lady myn!' they seyn, 'i yow ensure, as doth me grace, and i shal ever be, whyl that my lyf may lasten and endure, to yow as humble and lowe in ech degree as possible is, and kepe al thing secree right as your-selven liste that i do; and elles moot myn herte breste a-two.' ful hard it is to knowe a mannes herte; for outward may no man the trouthe deme; when word out of his mouthe may noon asterte but it by reson any wight shuld queme, so is it seyd of herte, as hit wolde seme. o feythful woman, ful of innocence, thou art deceyved by fals apparence! by proces women, meved of pitee, wening that al thing were as thise men sey, they graunte hem grace of hir benignitee for that men shulde nat for hir sake dey; and with good herte sette hem in the wey of blisful lovë--kepe it if they conne; thus other-whylë women beth y-wonne. and whan this man the pot hath by the stele, and fully is in his possessioun, with that woman he kepeth not to dele, after if he may fynden in the toun any woman, his blinde affeccioun on to bestowë; evel mote he preve! a man, for al his othes, is hard to leve! and, for that every fals man hath a make, (as un-to every wight is light to knowe), whan this traitour this woman hath forsake, he faste him spedeth un-to his felowe; til he be there, his herte is on a lowe; his fals deceyt ne may him not suffyse, but of his treson telleth al the wyse. is this a fair avaunt? is this honour, a man him-self accuse thus, and diffame? now is it good, confesse him a traitour, and bringe a woman to a sclandrous name, and telle how he her body hath do shame? no worship may he thus to him conquere, but greet esclaundre un-to him and here! to herë? nay, yet was it no repreef; for al for vertu was it that she wroughte; but he that brewed hath al this mischeef, that spak so faire, and falsly inward thoughte, his be the sclaundre, as it by reson oughte, and un-to her a thank perpetuel, that in a nede helpe can so wel! althogh of men, through sleyght and sotiltee, a sely, simple, and innocent woman betrayed is, no wonder, sith the citee of troye--as that the storie telle can-- betrayed was, through the disceyt of man, and set on fyre, and al doun over-throwe, and finally destroyed, as men knowe. betrayen men not citees grete, and kinges? what wight is that can shape remedye ageynes thise falsly purpósed thinges? who can the craft such craftes to espye but man, whos wit ay redy is t'aplye to thing that souneth in-to hy falshede? women, beth ware of mennes sleight, i rede! and furthermore han thise men in usage that, where as they not lykly been to spede, suche as they been with a double visage they prócuren, for to pursewe hir nede; he prayeth him in his causë to procede, and largely guerdoneth he his travayle; smal witen wommen how men hem assayle! another wrecche un-to his felowe seyth: 'thou fisshest faire! she that thee hath fyred is fals and inconstaunt, and hath no feyth. she for the rode of folke is so desyred and, as an hors, fro day to day is hyred that, when thou twinnest fro hir companye, another comth, and blered is thyn eyë! 'now prikke on fastë, and ryd thy journey whyl thou art there; for she, behind thy bak, so liberal is, she wol no wight with-sey, but smertly of another take a snak; for thus thise wommen faren, al the pak! who-so hem trusteth, hanged mote he be! ay they desyren chaunge and noveltee!' wher-of procedeth this but of envye? for he him-selve her ne winne may, he speketh her repreef and vileinye, as mannes blabbing tonge is wont alway. thus dyvers men ful often make assay for to distourben folk in sondry wyse, for they may not acheven hir empryse. ful many a man eek wolde, for no good, (that hath in love his tyme spent and used) men wiste, his lady his axing withstood, and that he were of her pleynly refused, or wast and veyn were al that he had mused; wherfore he can no better remedye but on his lady shapeth him to lye: 'every womman,' he seyth, 'is light to gete; can noon sey "nay," if she be wel y-soght. who-so may leyser han, with her to trete, of his purpós ne shal he faile noght, but he on madding be so depe y-broght that he shende al with open hoomlinesse; that loven wommen nat, as that i gesse!' to sclaundre wommen thus, what may profyte to gentils namely, that hem armen sholde, and in defence of wommen hem delyte as that the ordre of gentilesse wolde? if that a man list gentil to be holde, he moot flee al that ther-to is contrarie; a sclaundring tonge is his grete adversarie. a foul vice is of tonge to be light; for who-so michel clappeth, gabbeth ofte. the tonge of man so swift is and so wight that, whan it is areysed up-on lofte, resoun it seweth so slowly and softe, that it him never over-take may: lord! so thise men ben trusty in assay! al-be-it that man fynde oo woman nyce, inconstant, rechelees, or variable, deynouse or proud, fulfilled of malyce, withouten feyth or love, and deceyvable, sly, queynt, and fals, in al unthrift coupable, wikked and feers, and ful of crueltee. it foloweth nat that swiche al wommen be. whan that the high god aungels formed had, among hem alle whether ther werë noon that founden was malicious and bad? yis! al men woot that ther was many oon that, for hir pryde, fil from heven anoon. shul men therfore alle aungels proude name? nay! he that that susteneth is to blame. of twelve apostels oon a traitour was; the remënant yit godë were and trewe. than, if it happe men fyndë, per cas, oo womman fals, swich good is for t'eschewe, and deme nat that they ben alle untrewe. i see wel mennes owne falsenesse hem causeth wommen for to trusten lesse. o! every man oghte have an herte tendre unto womman, and deme her honurable, whether his shap be outher thikke or slendre, or be he bad or good; this is no fable. every man woot, that wit hath resonable, that of a womman he descended is: than is it shame, of her to speke amis. a wikked tree good fruit may noon forth bring, for swich the fruit is, as that is the tree. tak hede of whom thou took thy biginning; lat thy moder be mirour unto thee. honoure her, if thou wolt honoured be! dispyse thou her nat, in no manere, lest that ther-by thy wikkednesse appere! an old provérbë seyd is in english: men seyn, 'that brid or foul is dishonest, what that he be, and holden ful churlish, that useth to defoule his owne nest.' men, to sey wel of wommen it is best, and nat for to despyse hem ne deprave, if that they wole hir honour kepe and save. thise ladies eek compleynen hem on clerkes that they han maad bokës of hir diffame, in which they lakken wommen and hir werkes and speken of hem greet repreef and shame, and causëlees yive hem a wikked name. thus they despysed been on every syde, and sclaundred, and bilowen on ful wyde. the sory bokes maken mencioun how they betrayden, in especial, adam, david, sampsoun, and salamoun, and many oon mo; who may rehersen al the treson that they havë doon, and shal? the world hir malice may not comprehende; as that thise clerkes seyn, it hath non ende. ovyde, in his boke called 'remedye of lovë,' greet repreef of wommen wryteth; wherin, i trowe, he dide greet folye, and every wight that in such cas delyteth. a clerkes custom is, whan he endyteth of wommen, be it prose, or ryme, or vers, sey they ben wikke, al knowe he the revers. and that book scolers lerne in hir childhede, for they of wommen be war sholde in age, and for to love hem ever been in drede, sin to deceyve is set al hir corage. they seyn, peril to caste is avantage, and namely, suche as men han in be wrapped; for many a man by woman hath mishapped. no charge is, what-so that thise clerkes seyn; of al hir wrong wryting i do no cure; al hir travayle and labour is in veyn. for, betwex me and my lady nature, shal nat be suffred, whyl the world may dure, thise clerkes, by hir cruel tyrannye, thus upon wommen kythen hir maistrye. whylom ful many of hem were in my cheyne y-tyed, and now, what for unweldy age and for unlust, may not to love atteyne, and seyn, that love is but verray dotage. thus, for that they hem-self lakken corage, they folk excyten, by hir wikked sawes, for to rebelle agayn me and my lawes. but, maugre hem that blamen wommen most, suche is the force of myn impressioun, that sodeinly i felle can hir bost and al hir wrong imaginacioun. it shal not been in hir eleccioun the foulest slutte of al a toun refuse, if that me list, for al that they can muse; but her in herte as brenningly desyre as thogh she were a duchesse or a quene; so can i folkes hertes sette on fyre, and (as me list) hem sende joye or tene. they that to wommen been y-whet so kene my sharpe persing strokes, how they smyte, shul fele and knowe; and how they kerve and byte. perdee, this grete clerk, this sotil ovyde and many another han deceyved be of wommen, as it knowen is ful wyde; wot no man more; and that is greet deyntee, so excellent a clerk as that was he, and other mo that coude so wel preche betrapped were, for aught they coude teche. and trusteth wel, that it is no mervayle; for wommen knewen pleynly hir entente. they wiste how sotilly they coude assayle hem, and what falshood they in herte mente; and thise clerkes they in hir daunger hente. with oo venym another was distroyed; and thus thise clerkes often were anoyed. thise ladies ne thise gentils, nevertheles, were noon of tho that wroughten in this wyse; but swiche filthes as were vertules they quitten thus thise olde clerkes wyse. to clerkes forthy lesse may suffyse than to deprave wommen generally; for worship shul they gete noon therby. if that thise men, that lovers hem pretende, to wommen weren feythful, gode, and trewe, and dredde hem to deceyven or offende, wommen to love hem wolde nat eschewe. but every day hath man an herte newe; it upon oon abyde can no whyle. what fors is it, swich a wight to begyle? men beren eek thise wommen upon honde that lightly, and withouten any peyne, they wonne been; they can no wight withstonde that his disese list to hem compleyne. they been so freel, they mowe hem nat refreyne; but who-so lyketh may hem lightly have; so been hir hertes esy in to grave. to maister iohn de meun, as i suppose, than it was a lewd occupacioun in making of the romance of the rose; so many a sly imaginacioun and perils for to rollen up and doun, so long proces, so many a sly cautele for to deceyve a sely damosele! nat can i seen, ne my wit comprehende that art and peyne and sotiltee sholde fayle for to conquére, and sone make an ende, whan man a feble place shal assayle; and sone also to venquisshe a batayle of which no wight dar maken resistence, ne herte hath noon to stonden at defence. than moot it folwen of necessitee, sin art asketh so greet engyn and peyne a womman to disceyve, what she be, of constauncë they been not so bareyne as that somme of thise sotil clerkes feyne; but they ben as that wommen oghten be, sad, constant, and fulfilled of pitee. how frendly was medea to jasoun in the conquéring of the flees of gold! how falsly quitte he her affeccioun by whom victórie he gat, as he hath wold! how may this man, for shame, be so bold to falsen her, that from his dethe and shame him kepte, and gat him so gret prys and name? of troye also the traitour eneas, the feythles wrecche, how hath he him forswore to dido, that queen of cartágë was, that him releved of his smertes sore! what gentilesse might she han doon more than she with herte unfeyned to him kidde? and what mischeef to her ther-of betidde! in my legende of martres men may fynde (who-so that lyketh therin for to rede) that ooth noon ne behest may no man bynde; of reprevable shame han they no drede. in mannes herte trouthe hath no stede; the soil is noght, ther may no trouthe growe! to womman namely it is nat unknowe. clerkes seyn also: 'ther is no malyce unto wommannes crabbed wikkednesse!' o woman! how shalt thou thy-self chevyce, sin men of thee so muchel harm witnesse? no fors! do forth! takë no hevinesse! kepë thyn ownë, what men clappe or crake; and somme of hem shul smerte, i undertake! malyce of wommen, what is it to drede? they slee no men, distroyen no citees; they not oppressen folk ne overlede, betraye empyres, remes, ne duchees, ne men bereve hir landes ne hir mees, empoyson folk, ne houses sette on fyre, ne false contractes maken for non hyre! trust, perfit love, and entere charitee, fervent wil, and entalented corage to thewes gode, as it sit wel to be, han wommen ay, of custome and usage; and wel they can a mannes ire aswage with softe wordes discreet and benigne; what they be inward, sheweth outward signe. wommannes herte un-to no crueltee enclyned is, but they ben charitable, pitous, devout, fulle of humilitee, shamfaste, debonaire, and amiable, dredful, and of hir wordes mesurable: what womman thise hath not, peraventure, ne folweth nat the wey of her nature. men seyn: 'our firste moder, natheles, made al man-kynde lese his libertee, and naked it of joye, douteles; for goddes hestes disobeyed she, whan she presumed tasten of a tree, which god forbad that she nat ete of sholde; and, nad the devel been, namore she wolde.' th' envýous swelling that the feend, our fo, had unto man in herte, for his welthe, sente a serpent, and made her for to go to disceyve eve; and thus was mannes helthe beraft him by the fende, right in a stelthe, the womman noght knowing of the deceyt; god wot, ful fer was it from her conceyt. wherfore i sey, this godë womman eve our fader adam ne deceyved noght. ther may no man for a deceyt it preve proprely, but-if that she, in her thoght, had it compassed first, er it was wroght; and, for swich was nat her impressioun, men calle it may no déceyt, by resoun. no wight deceyveth but he it purpóse; the feend this déceyt caste, and nothing she. than is it wrong to demen or suppose that she sholde of this harm the cause be. wyteth the feend, and his be the maugree; and for excused have her innocence, sauf only that she brak obedience. and touching this, ful fewe men ther been, unnethes any, dar i saufly seye-- fro day to day, as that men mow wel seen, but that the hest of god they disobeye. have this in mynde, sires, i yow preye; if that ye be discreet and resonable, ye wol her holde the more excusable. and wher men seyn, 'in man is stedfastnesse, and woman is of her corage unstable,' who may of adam bere swich witnesse? telleth me this:--was he nat chaungeable? they bothe weren in a caas semblable, sauf willingly the feend deceyved eve, and so did she nat adam, by your leve. yet was this sinne happy to mankynde, the feend deceyved was, for al his sleight; for aught he coude him in his sleightes wynde, god, to discharge mankynde of the weight of his trespas, cam doun from hevenes height, and flesh and blood he took of a virgyne, and suffred deeth, him to deliver of pyne. and god, to whom ther may nothing hid be, if he in woman knowe had such malyce as men of hem recorde in generaltee, of our lady, of lyf reparatryce, nolde han be born; but, for that she of vyce was voyde, and of al vertu (wel he wiste) endowed, of her to be bore him liste. her heped vertu hath swich excellence that al to lene is mannes facultee to déclare it, and therfor in suspence her duë preysing put mot nedes be. but this we witen verrayly, that she, next god, the best frend is that to man longeth; the key of mercy by her girdil hongeth. and of mercy hath every man swich nede that, cessing that, farwel the joye of man! of her power now taketh right good hede; she mercy may, wol, and purchace can. displese her nat, honoureth that womman, and other wommen alle, for her sake! and, but ye do, your sorowe shal awake. thou precious gemme, o martir margarete, of thy blood draddest noon effusioun! thy martirdom ne may i nat foryete; thou, constant womman in thy passioun, overcoom the feendes temptacioun; and many a wight converted thy doctryne unto the feith of god, holy virgyne! but understondeth, i commende hir noght by enchesoun of hir virginitee; trusteth right wel, it cam not in my thoght; for ever i werrey ayein chastitee, and ever shal; but this, lo! meveth me, her loving herte and constant to her lay dryve out of rémembrauncë i ne may. in any boke also wher can ye fynde, that of the werkes or the dethe or lyf of jesu speketh, or maketh any mynde, that womman him forsook, for wo or stryf? wher was ther any wight so ententyf abouten him as wommen? pardee, noon! th'apostels him forsoken, everichoon. womman forsook him noght; for al the feyth of holy chirche in womman lefte only. this is no lees, for holy writ thus seyth; loke, and ye shal so fynde it, hardely. and therfore it may preved be therby, that in womman regneth stable constaunce and in men is the chaunge and variaunce! now holdeth this for ferme and for no lye, that this trewe and just commendacioun of wommen is nat told for flaterye, ne to cause hem pryde or elacioun, but only, lo! for this entencioun, to yeve hem corage of perseveraunce in vertu, and hir honour to enhaunce. the more vertu, the lasse is the pryde; vertu so digne is, and so noble in kynde that vyce and she wol not in-fere abyde. she putteth vyce clene out of her mynde, she fleeth from him, she leveth him behynde. o womman, that of vertu art hostesse, greet is thyn honour and thy worthinesse! than wol we thus concluden and diffyne: we yow comaunde, our ministres, echoon that redy been to our hestes enclyne, that of thise false men, our rebel foon, ye do punisshëment, and that anoon! voide hem our court and banish hem for ever so that ther-inne they ne come never. fulfilled be it, cessing al delay; look that ther be non excusacioun. writen in th'ayr, the lusty month of may, in our paleys (wher many a millioun of loveres trewe han habitacioun) the yere of grace joyful and jocounde a thousand and foure hundred and secounde. explicit litera cupidinis, dei amoris, directa suis subditis amatoribus. from f (fairfax); various readings from b (bodley ); t (tanner ); s (arch. selden b. ); a (ashburnham ms.); tr. (trin. coll. cam. r. . ). _also in_ th. (thynne, ed. ); d (digby ); ff (camb. univ. library, ff. . ); _and in the_ bannatyne ms. . f. goddis an. . f. pepill. f. ben. . a. folk; f. folke. f. besely; a. bisyly. . f. th. of the; s. _om._ of. s. cithera; f. sythera. s. sothly; f. oonly. . a. tr. alle; f. al. . f. sugetes. . a. wole; f. wol. . f. wymen. a. han i-sowe. . f. suche. . a. doon; f. do. . f. oure. . f. pitouse; effecte. . a. and passyng_e_ alle londes on this yle. . a. seyn; f. seye. . a. dissimulen; f. dyssimule. . a. tr. s. th. in; f. on. f. her. . a. herte. - . f. her. . a. and with so pitous. s. tr. pitouse a. . a. trewely; f. truly. . f. hert. a. han swich. . a. seyn; f. sey. f. her. . f. her. tr. list. f. schew. . f. anoone. f. _om._ mot; s. tr. most; th. must (_but read_ mot); cf. l. . . a. seyn; f. sey. f. yowe; th. you. . f. while. f. lyfe. a. lasten; f. last. . f. th. thing as; a.s. _om._ as. . f. youre. f. self; s. seluen. th. lyste; f. lyst; a. lykith. . a. moot myn herte; f. myn hert mote. a. breste; f. brest. . f. herd. th. knowe a mannes; f. know a manys. a. herte; f. hert. . f. outwarde. . s. word; f. worde. f. non astert. . _so_ s. tr.; a. sholde any wight by reson; f. th. by reson semed euery wight to queme. . f. seyde; th. sayd. f. hert; th. herte. . f. _om._ of. . f. arte. f. be; th. by. . f. processe. a. tr. s. wom_m_en meeued of; f. moveth oft woman. . s. that; _rest om._ . f. her. . f. hert set. . f. blesful. a.s. they; f. ye. . f. and thus; a.s. tr. _om._ and. . a.s. pot; th. pan; f. penne. . a. he keepith; f. kepeth he. s. not; a. nat; f. no more. . a. fynden; f. fynde. f. tovne. . a. on to; f. vnto. . a. hard; f. herde. a.s. leue; f. beleue. . th. traytour; f. traytoure. . a. faste him speedith; f. fast spedeth him. . th. herte; f. hert. . a.s. tr. ne; f. _om._ . f. faire avaunte. . f. silfe. . s. a. tr. now; f. _om._ s. a. him; f. th. himselfe. a.s. a; f. _om._ . a.s. a ( ); f. _om._ . f. tel; hir; hathe. . f. worshippe. . a. greet; f. grete. s. a sclander; t. th. disclaunder. . f. hir; reprefe. . a. tr. it; _rest om._ f. wroght. . f. myschefe. . f. spake; thoght. . f. be; th. by. f. oght. . s. a thank; tr. hye thank; f. thank. . d. th. a. nede; f. rede. . th. through; f. thorgh. . a. that; _rest om._ f. tel. . th. through; f. thorgh. . a.s. tr. th. al; f. _om._ f. dovne. . f. fynaly. . a. tr. betrayen; b. s. t. betray; f. betraied. . f. is yt that; s. a. tr. _om._ yt. . a. ageynes; f. ayens. f. falsely. . f. crafte suche. . f. wytte; a. tr. wil. a. tr. ay reedy is; s. redy ay is; f. is euer redy. a. tapplie; th. taply; f. to aplye. . a. hy; s. tr. hie; f. _om._ . t. a. tr. as; f. _om._ f. ben. . b. a. tr. th. they; f. _om._ . th. pursewe; f. pursw. . a. smal witen; f. lytell wote; tr. litel knowe. . f. wrechch; th. wretche. . f. inconstant; feythe. . f. cometh. . f. fast (_read_ faste). f. ride (_read_ ryd). . f. while. th. behynd; f. behinde. f. bake. . a. snak; f. snake; th. smacke. . f. thes; pake. . th. mote; f. mot. . f. selfe hyr. . f. hir reprefe; vileyny. . f. tong. . f. folke. . f. eke. . f. wer. a. d. th. had; f. hath. . f. shapith. . f. han leyser; d. t. th. leisur haue; a. tr. leiser han. . f. purpose. . th. madnesse. . f. homelynesse. . f. wy_m_men. . f. sclaunder women. . f. too. . a. al moot he flee. . th. tonge; f. tong. . f. foule. a. vice; th. vyce; f. thing. . a. tr. th. s. man; f. men. . th. ben; tr. been; f. beth. a. at (_for_ in). a. th. assay; f. asay. . f. hyt. f. o; th. one. . f. varriable. . s. and (_for_ or). s. proud; f. proude. . f. vnthrift; th. vntrust. . f. swich; d. th. suche. . d. god the hie. . a. all_e_; f. al. a. whether; f. wheither. a. was (_for_ were). . f. al. . f. _om. nd_ that. . tr. goode; f. good. . f. caas. . th. good is; f. is good. . f. al. . th. owne falsenesse; f. oone falsnesse. . f. oght. . f. wheither. . f. badde. . f. witte. . f. hir. . f. tre gode frute. . f. swiche; a. swich. . f. take. . f. merour; th. myrrour. . f. honure; honured. . a. nat hir. . f. seyde; th. sayd. . f. foule. . f. chirlyssh; th. churlysshe. . f. wymen; th. women. . d. b. t. a. tr. for to despyse; f. to displesen. . f. wol. . f. made. . a. they lakken; th. they dispyse; f. dispisen they. th. women and her; f. wo_m_mans; a. wo_m_menes. . f. grete reprefe. . f. yiven; d. yeve; th. yeue. . f. ben. . th. d. especial; f. special. . f. theys; noon. . f. grete reprefe. . f. grete. . f. case. . f. custome. . f. women. d. b. a. th. _om. st_ or. . f. seye; th. say. . f. boke. . f. women. . f. louen; s. d. tr. th. loue. . a. they (_glossed_ s. libri). f. perylle; th. p_er_el. f. cast. . f. b. wrappes (!) . d. s. th. women. f. b. myshappes (!) . s. th. is; f. _om._ a. that; _rest om._ . a.s. t. nat; d. th. not; f. noon. f. while. . f. tyranie. . f. wy_m_men. . d. th. many; f. mony. f. wer. . th. tyed; a. tyd. . f. werray; s. veray; d. verry; th. very. . f. selfe; d. silf. . f. folke. . f. mawgre; th. maugre. . f. _om._ the. . f. sodenly; th. sodainly. . f. ben; th. be. f. ellecciou_n_. . f. tovne; a. town. . th. her; f. hir. th. herte; f. hert. f. brenyngly. . f. hertys set. . f. ioy. . f. ben. . th. sharpe; f. sharp. . f. women. . s. wote; a. wat; f. th. what (!). f. grete; th. great. . f. aght; th. aught. . th. it; f. ys (!) f. mervaylle; th. meruayle. . f. women knywen; entent. . f. sotyly. . f. falshode; th. falsheed. f. hert ment; th. herte mente. . f. this clerkys. f. hent; th. hente. . f. wroghten; th. wrought. f. wysse; th. wyse. . s. fillok_es_ (_for_ filthes). f. weren; th. were. . f. wisse; th. wyse. , . f. clerkis. . a. th. to; f. d. the (!). . f. worshippe; th. worshyp. . f. women. f. good. . f. dreden; th. dredde. . f. women. . f. hert. . a. swich oon for to. . f. eke this women. . f. ben. . f. ben; hertys; craue (!). . f. i (!); _for_ to. th. moone. . f. lewde. . f. longe processe. f. slye; th. slygh. . f. damesele; th. damosel. . f. wytte. . f. peyn; th. payne. t. th. schulde; f. holde (!). . f. assaylle; th. assayle. . f. bataylle; th. batayle. . f. whiche. . f. hert; th. herte. . f. yt moot folowen; a. moot it folwen. . f. grete. . f. dysceve. . f. constance; ben. . f. clerkys. . f. pite. . f. frendely; th. frendly. . f. flee (!); golde. . f. quyt; hir. . f. gate; wolde. . f. bolde. . f. hir. . f. kept; grete. . f. wrechch; th. wretche; a. man. . f. that (_for_ than). f. hert; th. herte. . f. mischefe; hir. . th. natures (_for_ martres). . f. oothe in no; a. ooth noon ne; s. t. th. othe ne. . a. th. herte; f. hert. a. in herte of man conceites trewe arn dede. . a. wommannes; th. d. womans; f. a womans. th. wicked crabbydnesse. . f. the; harme. . f. no fors; a. yee strab (_or_ scrab). th. beth ware women of her fykelnesse. f. take; s. and take. . f. smert; th. smerte. . f. sle. . f. folke. . f. empoysone folkys; set. . f. perfyte. . d. b. th. a. entalented; f. entenlented. . f. be; th. al; _rest_ to. f. sytt. . f. women. . a. softe; f. th. soft. . f. outwarde. . a. wommannes; f. th. womans. . f. pitouse devoute ful. . f. _om._ and. . f. hir. . f. oure; th. our. a. firste; f. th. first. . f. ioy; th. ioye. . a. nat; f. ne. . f. nade; th. ne had; a. nad. f. she ne wolde. . f. the enviouse; tr. thenvyous. f. suellyng. f. fend. . th. herte; f. d. hert. . f. sent; hir. . f. deceyve; th. disceyue. . f. woman. . f. gode wote; hir. . f. good; tr. goode. f. woman. . f. er; a. th. or. . f. hir. . f. cast. . f. wronge. . f. harme. a. of th_a_t gilt. . f. fende; mawgre. . f. hir. . f. oonly. f. breeke; d. th. brake. . f. that; th. this. f. ben. . a. d. mowe; t. mow; th. may; f. now. . a. th. holde; f. hold. . f. th. where; b. whan. . f. swiche. . a. f. feende; tr. worme. . f. dide; th. dyd. . f. feende. . f. sleythes; th. sleyghtes; a. sleightes. . f. trespase; th. trespace. f. the hevenes; a. tr. s. th. _om._ the. . f. tooke. . f. suche. . f. yf (_for_ of). f. lyfe. . f. woyde; th. voyde. . f. hir. . f. leene; th. leane; s. low; a. weyke. . th. dewe. f. moot. . a. we witen; _rest_ i sey. f. verraly. . f. men (_for_ man). . f. mercye; hir girdille. . f. mercye. . f. farewel; ioy. . f. mercye. . f. honureth; th. honoureth. . a. tr. alle; f. al. . f. martirdome. th. thou louer trewe. thou mayden mansuete. . f. feendis. . _from_ a; f. b. _omit_ (!). . a. nat; tr. not; _rest_ neuer. . f. _om._ i. . f. hert; hir. . f. of my; th. _om._ my. - . _precedes_ - _in_ th. . f. where. . f. werkis; lyfe. . f. wommen (_read_ womman, _as in_ l. ). f. stryfe. . f. ententyfe. . _so_ th.; f. b. forsoken hym. . f. forsooke. . f. left oonly. . tr. holy wryt thus; f. thus holy wryt. . f. lok. . _so_ a.; f. b. i may wel preve herby. , . f. constance, variance. . f. trew; th. trewe. . a. is nat told for; f. tolde i nat for; th. tel i for no. . f. oonly loo. . f. honure; th. honour. th. auaunce. . a.s. she; _rest_ he. , . a.s. she; _rest_ he. s. hir; f. hi (!); _rest_ his. . f. wertu. . f. gret; honor. . f. oure; echon. . f. oure. . f. d. _om._ false. f. reble; th. rebel. . a. ynne; f. in. f. more neuer; a. _om._ more. . s. tr. that; _rest om._ . f. the ayer; a. their; tr. theyre. f. moneth. . f. oure; where; milion. . f. louers trwe. . f. iocunde. colophon. d. t. amatoribus; f. _om._ b. _has_--the lettre of cupide, god of love, directed to his suggestys louers. * * * * * vi. to the kinges most noble grace; and to the lordes and knightes of the garter. cestes balades ensuyantes feurent faites au tres noble roy henry le quint (que dieu pardoint!) et au tres honourable conpaignie du jarter. i. to you, welle of honour and worthinesse, our cristen king, the heir and successour un-to justinians devout tendrenesse in the feith of jesu, our redemptour; and to you, lordes of the garter, 'flour of chevalrye,' as men you clepe and calle; the lord of vertu and of grace auctour graunte the fruit of your loos never appalle! o lige lord, that han eek the lyknesse of constantyn, th'ensaumple and the mirour to princes alle, in love and buxumnesse to holy chirche, o verray sustenour and piler of our feith, and werreyour ageyn the heresyës bitter galle, do forth, do forth, continue your socour! hold up cristes baner; lat it nat falle! this yle, or this, had been but hethenesse, nad been of your feith the force and vigour! and yit, this day, the feendes fikilnesse weneth fully to cacche a tyme and hour to have on us, your liges, a sharp shour, and to his servitude us knitte and thralle. but ay we truste in you, our prótectour; on your constaunce we awayten alle. commandeth that no wight have hardinesse, o worthy king, our cristen emperour, of the feith to despute more or lesse openly among people, wher errour springeth al day and engendreth rumour. maketh swich lawe, and for aught may befalle, observe it wel; ther-to be ye dettour. doth so, and god in glorie shal you stalle. ii. ye lordes eek, shyninge in noble fame, to whiche appropred is the maintenaunce of cristes cause; in honour of his name shove on, and putte his foos to the outrance! god wolde so; so wolde eek your ligeaunce; to tho two prikketh you your duëtee. who-so nat kepeth this double observaunce of merit and honour naked is he! your style seith that ye ben foos to shame; now kythe of your feith the perséveraunce, in which an heep of us arn halte and lame. our cristen king of england and of fraunce, and ye, my lordes, with your alliaunce, and other feithful people that ther be (truste i to god) shul quenche al this nuisaunce and this land sette in hy prosperitee. conquest of hy prowesse is for to tame the wilde woodnesse of this mescreaunce; right to the rote repe ye that same! slepe nat this, but, for goddes plesaunce and his modres, and in signifiaunce that ye ben of seint georges liveree, doth him servyce and knightly obeisaunce; for cristes cause is his, wel knowen ye! stif stande in that, and ye shul greve and grame the fo to pees, the norice of distaunce; that now is ernest, torne it into game; dampnáble fro feith werë variaunce! lord lige, and lordes, have in rémembraunce, lord of al is the blessed trinitee, of whos vertu the mighty habundaunce you herte and strengthe in feithful unitee! amen. _cest tout._ _from_ p. (phillipps ); _also in_ ed. (ed. ). . ed. honour; p. honur. . p. our right cristen; ed. _om._ right. ed. the heire; p. _om._ the. . p. ch_iua_lrie; ed. cheualry. . p. nat; ed. neuer. . ed. _om._ the. . p. loue and; ed. humble. . p. bittir; ed. bytter. . p. foorth; ed. forthe (_twice_). . p. ed. holde. . p. fikilnesse; ed. crabbydnesse. . p. weeneth; ed. weneth. . p. seruiture; ed. seruytude. . p. commandith; ed. co_m_maundeth. . ed. o; p. our. ed. our; p. and. . ed. dispute. . p. where; ed. her. . p. spryngith; engendrith. . p. makith. p. aght; ed. ought. . p. been; ed. be. . p. dooth. . p. yee. . p. approped (!). . ed. duite. . p. keepith; ed. kepeth. . p. nakid; ed. naked. . ed. _om._ that. p. yee been. . p. arn; ed. be. . p. engeland and; ed. england and of. . p. yee. . p. othir. . p. qwenche. p. nusance; ed. noysaunce (_read_ nuisance). . p. conqueste; ed. conquest. . ed. myscreaunce. . p. roote rype; ed. rote repe. p. yee. . p. sleepe; ed. slepe. . p. yee been. . p. dooth. , . p. yee. . p. shuln; ed. shal. p. greeue. . ed. the; p. and. . ed. tourne. . ed. nowe kythe of your beleue the constaunce. . p. blissid; ed. blysfull. * * * * * vii. a moral balade. by henry scogan, squyer. here foloweth next a moral balade, to my lord the prince, to my lord of clarence, to my lord of bedford, and to my lord of gloucestre, by henry scogan; at a souper of feorthe merchande in the vyntre in london, at the hous of lowys johan. my noble sones, and eek my lordes dere, i, your fader called, unworthily, sende un-to you this litel tretys here writen with myn owne hand full rudëly; although it be that i not reverently have writen to your estats, yet i you praye, myn unconning taketh benignëly for goddes sake, and herken what i seye. i complayn sore, whan i remembre me the sodeyn age that is upon me falle; more i complayn my mispent juventè the whiche is impossible ayein to calle. but certainly, the most complaynte of alle is for to thinke, that i have been so nyce that i ne wolde no virtue to me calle in al my youthe, but vyces ay cheryce. of whiche i aske mercy of thee, lord, that art almighty god in majestè, beseking thee, to make so even accord betwix thee and my soule, that vanitè of worldly lust, ne blynd prosperitè have no lordship over my flesshe so frele. thou lord of reste and parfit unitè, put fro me vyce, and keep my soules hele. and yeve me might, whyl i have lyf and space, me to conforme fully to thy plesaunce; shewe upon me th'abundaunce of thy grace, in gode werkes graunt me perséveraunce. of al my youthe forget the ignoraunce; yeve me good wil, to serve thee ay to queme; set al my lyf after thyn ordinaunce, and able me to mercy, or thou deme! my lordes dere, why i this complaint wryte to you, alle whom i love entierly, is for to warne you, as i can endyte, that tyme y-lost in youthe folily greveth a wight goostly and bodily, i mene hem that to lust and vyce entende. wherfore, i pray you, lordes, specially, your youthe in vertue shapeth to dispende. planteth the rote of youthe in suche a wyse that in vertue your growing be alway; loke ay, goodnesse be in your exercyse, that shal you mighty make, at eche assay, the feend for to withstonde at eche affray. passeth wysly this perilous pilgrimage, thinke on this word, and werke it every day; that shal you yeve a parfit floured age. taketh also hede, how that these noble clerkes write in hir bokes of gret sapience, saying, that fayth is deed withouten werkes; so is estat withoute intelligence of vertue; and therfore, with diligence, shapeth of vertue so to plante the rote, that ye therof have ful experience, to worship of your lyfe and soules bote. taketh also hede, that lordship ne estat, withoute vertue, may not longe endure; thinketh eek how vyce and vertue at debat have been, and shal, whyles the world may dure; and ay the vicious, by aventure, is overthrowe; and thinketh evermore that god is lord of vertue and figure of al goodnesse; and therfore folowe his lore. my mayster chaucer, god his soulë have! that in his langage was so curious, he sayde, the fader whiche is deed and grave, biquath nothing his vertue with his hous unto his sone; therfore laborious ought ye to be, beseching god, of grace, to yeve you might for to be vertuous, through which ye might have part of his fayr place. here may ye see that vertuous noblesse cometh not to you by way of auncestrye, but it cometh thorugh leefful besinesse of honest lyfe, and not by slogardrye. wherfore in youthe i rede you edefye the hous of vertue in so wys manere that in your age it may you kepe and gye fro the tempest of worldly wawes here. thinketh how, betwixë vertue and estat there is a parfit blessed mariage; vertue is cause of pees, vyce of debat in mannes soule; for which, with ful corage, cherissheth vertue, vyces to outrage: dryveth hem away; let hem have no wonning in your soules; leseth not the heritage which god hath yeve to vertuous living. taketh hede also, how men of povre degree through vertue have be set in greet honour, and ever have lived in greet prosperitee through cherisshing of vertuous labour. thinketh also, how many a governour called to estat, hath oft be set ful lowe through misusing of right, and for errour, therfore i counsaile you, vertue to knowe. thus 'by your eldres may ye nothing clayme,' as that my mayster chaucer sayth expresse, 'but temporel thing, that man may hurte and mayme'; than is god stocke of vertuous noblesse; and sith that he is lord of blessednesse, and made us alle, and for us alle deyde, folowe his vertue with ful besinesse, and of this thing herke how my mayster seyde:-- _the firste stok, fader of gentilesse,_ _what man that claymeth gentil for to be_ _must folowe his trace, and alle his wittes dresse_ _vertu to sewe, and vyces for to flee._ _for unto vertu longeth dignitee,_ _and noght the revers, saufly dar i deme,_ _al were he mytre, croune, or diademe._ _this firste stok was ful of rightwisnesse,_ _trewe of his word, sobre, pitous, and free,_ _clene of his goste, and loved besinesse_ _ageinst the vyce of slouthe, in honestee;_ _and, but his heir love vertu, as dide he,_ _he is noght gentil, though he riche seme,_ _al were he mytre, croune, or diademe._ _vyce may wel be heir to old richesse;_ _but ther may no man, as men may wel see,_ _bequethe his heir his vertuous noblesse;_ _that is appropred unto no degree,_ _but to the firste fader in magestee_ _that maketh him his heir, that can him queme,_ _al were he mytre, croune, or diademe._ lo here, this noble poete of bretayne how hyely he, in vertuous sentence, the losse in youthe of vertue can complayne; wherfore i pray you, dooth your diligence, for your estats and goddes reverence, t'enprintë vertue fully in your mynde, that, whan ye come in your juges presence, ye be not set as vertules behynde. ye lordes have a maner now-a-dayes, though oon shewe you a vertuous matere, your fervent youthe is of so false alayes that of that art ye have no joy to here. but, as a ship that is withouten stere dryveth up and doun, withouten governaunce, wening that calm wol lastë, yeer by yere, right so fare ye, for very ignoraunce. for very shamë, knowe ye nat, by réson that, after an ebbe, ther cometh a flood ful rage? in the same wyse, whan youth passeth his séson, cometh croked and unweldy palled age; sone after comen kalends of dotage; and if your youth no vertue have provyded, al men wol saye, fy on your vassalage! thus hath your slouth fro worship you devyded. boëce the clerk, as men may rede and see, saith, in his boke of consolacioun, what man desyreth +have of vyne or tree plentee of fruit, in the ryping sesoun, must ay eschewe to doon oppressioun unto the rote, whyle it is yong and grene; ye may wel see, by this conclusioun, that youthë vertulees doth mochel tene. seeth, there-ayenst, how vertuous noblesse roted in youthe, with good perséveraunce, dryveth away al vyce and wrecchednesse, as slogardrye, ryote and distaunce! seeth eek how vertue causeth suffisaunce, and suffisaunce exyleth coveityse! and who hath vertue hath al abundaunce of wele, as fer as reson can devyse. taketh hede of tullius hostilius, that cam fro povertee to hy degree; through vertue redeth eek of julius the conquerour, how povre a man was he; yet, through his vertue and humanitee, of many a countree had he governaunce. thus vertue bringeth unto greet degree eche wight that list to do him entendaunce. rede, here-ayenst, of nero vertulees; taketh hede also of proude balthasar; they hated vertue, equitee, and pees. loke how antiochus fil fro his char, that he his skin and bones al to-tar! loke what meschauncë they had for hir vyces! who-so that wol not by these signes be war, i dar wel say, infortunat or nyce is. i can no more; but here-by may ye see how vertue causeth parfit sikernesse, and vyces doon exyle prosperitee; the best is, ech to chesen, as i gesse. doth as you list, i me excuse expresse; i wolde be sory, if that ye mischese. god you conferme in vertuous noblesse, so that through negligence ye nothing lese! _explicit_. _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ); _collated with_ a. (ashmole ), _and_ cx. (caxton); _readings also given from_ h. (harl. ). title; _from_ a. (_which has_ folowethe nexst); cx. _has_ here next foloweth a tretyse, whiche john skogan sente vnto the lordes and gentilmen of the kynges hows, exortyng them to lose no tyme in theyr yougthe, but to vse vertues; th. _has_ scogan vnto the lordes and gentylmen of the kynges house. . th. a. sonnes. . th. a. vnworthely. . th. lytel treatyse; a. balade folowing. . th. with; a. h. of. . th. h. although; cx. and though; a. yitte howe. . th. a. estates. a. yet; h. th. cx. _om._ . cx. herkne (_better_). . th. me sore; a. h. _om._ me. . a. h. falle; th. fal. . th. but more; a. h. cx. _om._ but. th. iuuentute. . th. ayen for; a. ageine. a. h. calle; th. cal. . th. h. certainly; a. comvnely. th. a. moste. a. h. alle; th. al. . a. h. for; th. _om._ a. beon; th. be. . a. h. no; th. _om._ a. vertue; th. vertues. a. calle; th. cal. . a. ay; th. aye. . a. thee; th. the. th. lorde. . th. h. god; a. lorde. . th. betwyxe; a. bytwene. . a. h. of; th. cx. _om._ th. blynde. . a. so freel; th. h. to frele. . th. lorde; perfyte. . a. h. cx. soules; th. soule. . th. whyle; lyfe. . a. h. confourme; th. confyrme (!). . a. h. vpon; th. to. . th. and in; a. h. _om._ and. . a. thee; th. the. . th. lyfe. a. h. thy governaunce. . a. alle whome; cx. whom that; th. whom. th. moste entyrely; cx. a. entierly. . a. eloste; th. loste; h. cx. lost. . a. h. goostely and bodely; th. cx. bodily and gostly. . th. meane. . a. i prey you lordes; th. lordes i pray you. a. tendrely. . cx. _transposes_ - _and_ - . a. plantethe; th. cx. plante. . a. ay; th. alway. . cx. the frende (!) for to withsto_n_de; a. for to withstonde the feonde; th. the fende to withstande. . th. peryllous; h. perilous. . h. th. cx. werke; a. vse. . th. parfyte. . th. writen; a. wrote. th. her. th. great; h. grete; a. noble. . _so_ a.; th. and right so is estate with negligence. . a. then kepe also that. . cx. a. withoute; th. without. . cx. vice; a. h. th. vices. . a. whiles; th. while. th. worlde. . a. h. ay; th. cx. euer. . th. lorde of al; h. a. lord of. . th. sayd that the; a. saide that the; h. cx. _om._ that. th. father; a. h. fader. . h. a. beqwath; th. byqueth. th. house. . _so_ a. cx.; th. children and therefore laborouse. . h. th. ought; a. aught; cx. owe. th. _om._ to. th. besekyng; a. beseching. . th. haue; a. h. gete. th. p_ar_te. a. feyre; th. h. _om._ . a. comþe. . a. thorugh; cx. thurgh; th. by. a. leofful; th. leful; h. leeful. . th. you ye; a. h. _om._ ye. . th. house. a. soo wyse; th. h. suche a. . th. _om._ it. . h. a. worldly; th. worldes. . th. howe betwyxe; a. howe bytwene. . th. parfyte. . h. a. for whiche with full; th. the whiche be ful of. . th. than vertue; a. _om._ than. . a. cx. _om. st_ hem. . a. leese; h. lesith. . th. howe. a. poure; th. poore. , . th. great. . th. h. through; a. by. . th. h. called; a. calde. a. offt; h. th. cx. _om._ . a. for; th. h. cx. of. . th. and therfore; _rest om._ and. . a. by auncetrye thus; th. h. thus by your auncestres; cx. thus by your eldres. . th. men (_for_ man). . cx. than god is. . th. sythe; lorde. th. blyssednesse; a. blessednesse. . a. that (_for_ and). a. h. alle; th. al ( ). cx. alle; th. al ( ). _for_ us alle a. _has_ mankynde that. . _so_ a.; th. h. foloweth hym in vertue. - . chaucer's poem of _gentilesse_ is here quoted; see vol. i. p. . . a. howe hyely he; th. howe lightly. . a. lesse (!); th. losse. a. h. in; th. on. . a. wherfore; th. and therefore. a. doothe; th. with (!). . a. estates; th. profyte. . a. tenprynte; th. tempereth (!). a. h. vertue fully; th. fully vertue. . cx. in; a. h. in-to; th. to. . a. h. sette as vertulesse; th. vertulesse than. . h. cx. ye; a. for yee; th. many. th. a. nowe. . cx. h. you; th. hem. a. thaughe one of you here of a gode matere. . cx. h. your feruent; th. her feruent; a. your vnsure. . th. arte. cx. h. ye; th. they. a. that of suche artes you liste not to. . cx. a. withouten; th. without a. . a. withouten; th. without. . th. calme. a. wol laste you; th. wolde last. th. yere by yere. . cx. a. h. ye; th. they. . cx. a. h. ye; th. they. . a. cx. _om._ ful. . a. right euen so whane. . a. comthe. . a. soone; th. and sone. th. comen the; cx. come; a. comthe. . th. if that; cx. a. h. _om._ that. cx. a. your; th. her. a. h. no vertue haue; cx. no vertue hath; th. haue no vertue. . th. fye. cx. a. your; th. her. . a. h. your; th. her. cx. h. you; th. hem. a. _has_ thus hathe youre youthe and slouthe you al misgyded. . cx. a. h. to haue; th. _om._ (_read_ haue). . a. plenty of; cx. plentyuous; th. plentous. th. fruite. a. h. cx. the; th. _om._ a. h. cx. riping; th. reapyng. . a. h. cx. ay; th. euer. a. doon; th. do. . a. h. cx. yee may; th. thus may ye. a. h. wele see; cx. see; th. se wel. a. h. this; th. that. a. cx. conclusioun; th. inclusyon (!). . a. youthe; th. youth. a. th. vertulesse. th. moche; cx. ofte muche; a. ay michil (_read_ mochel). . th. nowe seeth; a. h. cx. _om._ nowe. th. howe; a. that. . a. youthe; th. youth. . a. cx. vyce; h. vice; th. vyces. . a. al (_for_ as). a. al ryote; h. cx. th. _om._ al. . th. eke howe. . _so_ a. cx.; h. _om._; th. _has_ seeth eke howe vertue voydeth al vyce (!). . th. h. cx. whoso; a. _om._ so. . th. ferre; a. far. th. reason. . a. came frome pouertee; th. fro pouert came. th. hygh; a. hye. . th. eke. . th. howe poore. . a. h. cx. humanite; th. his humylite. . th. _om._ a. . a. unto gret; cx. to hye; th. a man to great. . a. cx. list; th. h. lust. th. entendaunce; _rest_ attendaunce. . th. nowe of; a. h. cx. _om._ nowe. . th. and loke; _rest om._ and. th. howe; chare. . th. tare. . a. meschaunces. . th. h. cx. _om._ that. th. ware. . a. th. infortunate. a. h. cx. or; th. and. . th. no more nowe say; cx. no more say; h. no more; a. more (!). th. herby; se. . a. th. howe. a. th. perfyte. . a. done exyle; th. h. exylen al; cx. exyles al. . th. eche man to; cx. man to; a. dethe to (dethe _is put for_ eche). a. cheesen; th. chose. . th. a. dothe. . a. cx. wil (_for_ wolde). th. right sorie; a. h. cx. _om._ right. . a. you conferme; th. confyrme you. . a. no thing; cx. h. nothing; th. not it. colophon. cx. thus endeth the traytye wiche john skogan sent to the lordes and estates of the kynges hous. * * * * * viii. john lydgate. the complaint of the black knight; or, the complaint of a loveres lyfe. in may, whan flora, the fresshe lusty quene, the soile hath clad in grene, rede, and whyte, and phebus gan to shede his stremes shene amid the bole, with al the bemes brighte, and lucifer, to chace awey the night, ayen the morowe our orizont hath take to bidde lovers out of hir sleepe awake, and hertes hevy for to recomforte from dreriheed of hevy nightes sorowe, nature bad hem ryse, and hem disporte, ayen the goodly, gladde, greye morowe; and hope also, with seint johan to borowe, bad, in dispyt of daunger and dispeyre, for to take the hoolsom lusty eyre: and with a sigh i gan for to abreyde out of my slombre, and sodainly up sterte as he, alas! that nigh for sorowe deyde, my sekenes sat ay so nigh my herte. but, for to finde socour of my smerte, or at the leste som réles of my peyne, that me so sore halt in every veyne, i roos anon, and thoghte i wolde goon into the wode, to here the briddes singe, whan that the misty vapour was agoon and clere and faire was the morowning; the dewe also, lyk silver in shyning upon the leves, as any baume swete, til fyry tytan, with his persaunt hete, had dryed up the lusty licour newe upon the herbes in the grene mede, and that the floures, of many dyvers hewe, upon hir stalkes gonne for to sprede and for to splaye[n] out hir leves on-brede agayn the sonne, gold-burned in his spere, that doun to hem caste his bemes clere. and by a river forth i gan costey of water clere as berel or cristal til at the laste i found a litel wey toward a park, enclosed with a wal in compas rounde, and by a gate smal who-so that wolde frely mighte goon into this park, walled with grene stoon. and in i wente, to here the briddes song, whiche on the braunches, bothe in playn and vale, so loude songe, that al the wode rong lyke as it shulde shiver in peces smale; and, as me thoughte, that the nightingale with so gret mighte her voys gan out-wreste right as her herte for love wolde breste. the soil was playn, smothe, and wonder softe al oversprad with tapites that nature had mad her-selve, celured eek alofte with bowes grene, the floures for to cure, that in hir beautè they may longe endure from al assaut of phebus fervent fere, whiche in his spere so hote shoon and clere. the eyre attempre, and the smothe wind of zepherus, among the blossomes whyte, so hoolsom was and norisshing by kind, that smale buddes, and rounde blomes lyte in maner gonnen of her brethe delyte to yeve us hope that hir fruit shal take, ayens autumpne, redy for to shake. i saw ther daphne, closed under rinde, grene laurer, and the hoolsom pyne; the myrre also, that wepeth ever of kinde; the cedres hye, upright as a lyne; the philbert eek, that lowe doth enclyne her bowes grene to the erthe adoun unto her knight, y-called demophoun. ther saw i eek the fresshe hawëthorn in whyte motlè, that so swote doth smelle, ash, firre, and ook, with many a yong acorn, and many a tree--mo than i can telle; and, me beforn, i saw a litel welle, that had his cours, as i gan beholde, under an hille, with quikke stremes colde. the gravel gold, the water pure as glas, the bankes rounde, the welle envyroning; and softe as veluët the yonge gras that therupon lustily cam springing; the sute of trees aboute compassing hir shadowe caste, closing the welle rounde, and al the herbes growing on the grounde. the water was so hoolsom and vertuous through might of herbes growing there besyde, not lyk the welle, wher-as narcisus y-slayn was, through vengeaunce of cupyde, where so covertly he didë hyde the grayn of cruel dethe upon ech brinke, that deeth mot folowe, who that ever drinke; ne lyk the pittë of the pegacè under pernaso, where poetës slepte; nor lyk the welle of pure chastitè which that dyane with her nymphes kepte, whan she naked into the water lepte, that slow acteon with his houndes felle only for he cam so nigh the welle! bút this welle, that i here reherce, so hoolsom was, that it wolde aswage bollen hertes, and the venim perce of pensifheed, with al the cruel rage, and evermore refresshe the visage of hem that were in any werinesse of greet labour, or fallen in distresse. and i, that had, through daunger and disdayne, so drye a thrust, thoughte i wolde assaye to taste a draughte of this welle, or twayne, my bitter langour if it mighte alaye; and on the banke anon adoun i lay, and with myn heed unto the welle i raughte, and of the water drank i a good draughte; wherof, me thought, i was refresshed wele of the brenning that sat so nigh my herte, that verily anon i gan to fele an huge part relesed of my smerte; and therwithallë anon up i sterte, and thoughte i wolde walke, and see more forth in the parke, and in the holtes hore. and through a laundë as i yede a-pace and gan aboute faste to beholde, i found anon a délitable place that was beset with treës yonge and olde, whose names here for me shal not be tolde; amidde of whiche stood an herber grene, that benched was, with colours newe and clene. thís herber was ful of floures inde, in-to the whiche as i beholde gan, betwix an hulfere and a wodëbinde, as i was war, i saw wher lay a man in blakke and whyte colour, pale and wan, and wonder deedly also of his hewe, of hurtes grene and fresshe woundes newe. and overmore distrayned with sekenesse, besyde al this, he was, ful grevously; for upon him he had an hoot accesse, that day by day him shook ful pitously; so that, for constreynt of his malady and hertly wo, thus lying al alone, it was a deeth for to here him grone. wherof astonied, my foot i gan withdrawe, greetly wondring what it mighte be that he so lay, and hadde no felawe, ne that i coude no wight with him see; wherof i hadde routhe, and eek pitè, and gan anon, so softely as i coude, among the busshes me prively to shroude; if that i mighte in any wyse espye what was the cause of his deedly wo, or why that he so pitously gan crye on his fortune, and on his ure also; with al my might i layde an ere to, every word to marke, what he seyde, out of his swough among as he abrayde. but first, if i shulde make mencioun of his persone, and plainly him discryve, he was in sothe, without excepcioun, to speke of manhode, oon the best on-lyve; ther may no man ayen the trouthe stryve. for of his tyme, and of his age also he proved was, ther men shulde have ado, for oon the beste there, of brede and lengthe so wel y-mad by good proporcioun, if he had be in his deliver strengthe; but thought and seknesse were occasioun that he thus lay, in lamentacioun, gruffe on the grounde, in place desolat, sole by him-self, awhaped and amat. and, for me semeth that it is sitting his wordes al to putte in remembraunce, to me, that herdë al his complayning and al the groundë of his woful chaunce, if ther-withal i may you do plesaunce, i wol to you, so as i can, anon, lyk as he sayde, reherce hem everichon. but who shal helpe me now to complayne? or who shal now my style gye or lede? o niobè, let now thy teres rayne in-to my penne; and helpe eek in this nede, thou woful mirre, that felest my herte blede of pitous wo, and myn hand eek quake whan that i wryte, for this mannes sake! for unto wo accordeth complayning and doleful cherë unto hevinesse; to sorowe also, syghing and weping, and pitous mourning, unto drerinesse; and whoso that shal wryten of distresse in party nedeth to knowe felingly cause and rote of al such malady. but i, alas! that am of witte but dulle, and have no knowing of such matere, for to discryve and wryten at the fulle the woful complaynt, which that ye shal here, but even-lyk as doth a skrivenere that can no more what that he shal wryte, but as his maister besyde doth endyte; right so fare i, that of no sentement saye right naught, as in conclusioun, but as i herde, whan i was present, this man complayne with a pitous soun; for even-lyk, without addicioun or disencrees, either more or lesse, for to reherce anon i wol me dresse. and if that any now be in this place that fele in love brenning or fervence, or hindred werë to his lady grace with false tonges, that with pestilence slee trewe men that never did offence in word nor dede, ne in hir entent-- if any suche be here now present, let him of routhe lay to audience, with doleful chere and sobre countenaunce, to here this man, by ful high sentence, his mortal wo and his gret perturbaunce cómplayning, now lying in a traunce, with lokes upcaste, and with ruful chere, th' effect of whiche was as ye shal here.-- compleynt. the thought oppressed with inward sighes sore, the painful lyf, the body languisshing, the woful gost, the herte rent and tore, the pitous chere, pale in compleyning, the deedly face, lyk ashes in shyning, the salte teres that fro myn eyën falle, parcel declare grounde of my peynes alle: whos herte is grounde to blede in hevinesse; the thought, resceyt of wo and of complaynt; the brest is cheste of dole and drerinesse; the body eek so feble and so faynt; with hote and colde myn acces is so meynt, that now i chiver for defaute of hete, and, hoot as gleed, now sodainly i swete. now hoot as fyr, now cold as asshes dede, now hoot fro cold, now cold fro hete agayn; now cold as ys, now as coles rede for hete i brenne; and thus, betwixe twayne, i possed am, and al forcast in payne; so that my hete plainly, as i fele, of grevous cold is causë, every-deel. this is the cold of inward high disdayne, cold of dispyt, and cold of cruel hate; this is the cold that doth his besy payne ayeines trouthe to fighte and to debate. this is the cold that wolde the fyr abate of trewe mening; alas! the harde whyle! this is the cold that wolde me begyle. for ever the better that in trouthe i mente with al my mighte faythfully to serve, with herte and al for to be diligent, the lesse thank, alas! i can deserve! thus for my trouthe daunger doth me sterve. for oon that shulde my deeth, of mercy, lette hath mad despyt newe his swerd to whette ayeines me, and his arowes to fyle to take vengeaunce of wilful crueltè; and tonges false, through hir sleightly wyle, han gonne a werre that wil not stinted be; and fals envye, wrathe, and enmitè, have conspired, ayeines al right and lawe, of hir malyce, that trouthe shal be slawe. and male-bouche gan first the tale telle, to slaundre trouthe, of indignacioun; and fals-report so loude rong the belle, that misbeleve and fals-suspeccioun, have trouthe brought to his dampnacioun, so that, alas! wrongfully he dyeth, and falsnes now his placë occupyeth, and entred is in-to trouthes lond, and hath therof the ful possessioun. o rightful god, that first the trouthe fond, how may thou suffre such oppressioun, that falshood shulde have jurisdiccioun in trouthes right, to slee him giltëlees? in his fraunchyse he may not live in pees. falsly accused, and of his foon forjuged, without answere, whyl he was absent, he dampned was, and may not ben excused, for crueltè sat in jugëment of hastinesse, withoute avysëment, and bad disdayn do execute anon his jugëment, in presence of his foon. attourney noon ne may admitted been t'ëxcuse trouthë, ne a word to speke; to fayth or ooth the juge list not seen, there is no gayn, but he wil be wreke. o lord of trouthe, to thee i calle and clepe; how may thou see, thus in thy presence, withoute mercy, murdred innocence? now god, that art of trouthe soverain and seëst how i lye for trouthe bounde, so sore knit in loves fyry chain even at the deth, through-girt with many a wounde that lykly are never for to sounde, and for my trouthe am dampned to the deeth, and not abyde, but drawe along the breeth: consider and see, in thyn eternal right, how that myn herte professed whylom was for to be trewe with al my fulle might only to oon, the whiche now, alas! of voluntè, withoute any trespas, myn accusours hath taken unto grace, and cherissheth hem, my deth for to purchace. what meneth this? what is this wonder ure of purveyauncë, if i shal it calle, of god of love, that false hem so assure, and trewe, alas! doun of the whele ben falle? and yet in sothe, this is the worst of alle, that falshed wrongfully of trouthe hath name, and trouthe ayenward of falshed bereth the blame. this blinde chaunce, this stormy aventure, in lovë hath most his experience; for who that doth with trouthe most his cure shal for his mede finde most offence, that serveth love with al his diligence; for who can faynë, under lowliheed, ne fayleth not to finde grace and speed. for i loved oon, ful longë sith agoon, with al my herte, body, and ful might, and, to be deed, my herte can not goon from his hest, but holde that he hath hight; though i be banisshed out of her sight, and by her mouth dampned that i shal deye, +to my behest yet i wil ever obeye. for ever, sithë that the world began, who-so list lokë, and in storie rede, he shal ay finde that the trewe man was put abakke, wher-as the falshede y-furthered was; for love taketh non hede to slee the trewe, and hath of hem no charge, wher-as the false goth freely at hir large. i take recorde of palamides, the trewe man, the noble worthy knight, that ever loved, and of his payn no relees; notwithstonding his manhood and his might love unto him did ful greet unright; for ay the bet he did in chevalrye, the more he was hindred by envye. and ay the bet he did in every place through his knighthood and his besy payne, the ferther was he from his lady grace, for to her mercy mighte he never attayne; and to his deth he coude it not refrayne for no daungere, but ay obey and serve as he best coude, plainly, til he sterve. what was the fyne also of hercules, for al his conquest and his worthinesse, that was of strengthe alone pereles? for, lyk as bokes of him list expresse, he sette pillers, through his hy prowesse, away at gades, for to signifye that no man mighte him passe in chevalrye. the whiche pillers ben ferre beyonde inde beset of golde, for a remembraunce; and, for al that, was he set behinde with hem that love liste febly avaunce; for [he] him sette last upon a daunce, ageynes whom helpe may no stryf; for al his trouthe, yit he loste his lyf. phebus also, for al his persaunt light, whan that he wente here in erthe lowe, unto the herte with fresh venus sight y-wounded was, through cupydes bowe, and yet his lady liste him not to knowe. though for her love his herte didë blede, she leet him go, and took of him no hede. what shal i saye of yonge piramus? of trew tristram, for al his hye renoun? of achilles, or of antonius? of arcite eke, or of him palemoun? what was the endë of hir passioun but, after sorowe, deeth, and than hir grave? lo, here the guerdon that these lovers have! but false jason, with his doublenesse, that was untrewe at colkos to medee, and theseus, rote of unkindënesse, and with these two eek the false enee; lo! thus the falsë, ay in oon degrè, had in love hir lust and al hir wille; and, save falshood, ther was non other skille. of thebes eek the false [knight] arcyte, and demophon +also, for [al] his slouthe, they had hir lust and al that might delyte for al hir falshode and hir greet untrouthe. thus ever love (alas! and that is routhe!) his false leges forthereth what he may, and sleeth the trewe ungoodly, day by day. for trewe adon was slayn with the bore amid the forest, in the grene shade; for venus love he feltë al the sore. but vulcanus with her no mercy made; the foule chorl had many nightes glade, wher mars, her worthy knight, her trewe man, to finde mercy, comfort noon he can. also the yonge fresshe ipomenes so lusty free [was], as of his corage, that for to serve with al his herte he chees athalans, so fair of hir visage; but love, alas! quitte him so his wage with cruel daunger plainly, at the laste, that, with the dethe, guerdonles he paste. lo! here the fyne of loveres servyse! lo! how that love can his servaunts quyte! lo! how he can his faythful men despyse, to slee the trewe, and false to respyte! lo! how he doth the swerd of sorowe byte in hertes, suche as most his lust obeye, to save the false, and do the trewe deye! for fayth nor ooth, word, ne assuraunce, trewe mening, awayte, or besinesse, stille port, ne faythful attendaunce, manhood, ne might, in armes worthinesse, pursute of worship, nor no hy prowesse, in straunge lande ryding, ne travayle, ful lyte or nought in lovë doth avayle. peril of dethe, nother in see ne lande, hunger ne thurst, sorowe ne sekenesse, ne grete empryses for to take on hande, sheding of blode, ne manful hardinesse, ne ofte woundinge at sautes by distresse, nor +juparting of lyf, nor deeth also-- al is for nought, love taketh no hede therto! but lesings, with hir false flaterye, through hir falshede, and with hir doublenesse, with tales newe and many fayned lye, by fals semblaunt and counterfet humblesse, under colour depeynt with stedfastnesse, with fraude covered under a pitous face accepte been now rathest unto grace, and can hem-selve now best magnifye with fayned port and fals presumpcioun; they haunce hir cause with fals surquedrye under meninge of double entencioun, to thenken oon in hir opinioun and saye another; to sette hemselve alofte and hinder trouthe, as it is seyn ful ofte. the whiche thing i bye now al to dere, thanked be venus and the god cupyde! as it is sene by myn oppressed chere, and by his arowes that stiken in my syde, that, sauf the deth, i nothing abyde fro day to day; alas, the harde whyle! whan ever his dart that him list to fyle, my woful herte for to ryve a-two for faute of mercy, and lak of pitè of her that causeth al my payne and wo and list not ones, of grace, for to see unto my trouthe through her crueltee; and, most of alle, yit i me complayne, that she hath joy to laughen at my peyne! and wilfully hath [she] my deeth y-sworn al giltëlees, and wot no cause why save for the trouthe that i have had aforn to her alone to serve faithfully! o god of lovë! unto thee i cry, and to thy blinde double deitee of this gret wrongë i compleyne me, and to thy stormy wilful variaunce y-meynt with chaunge and greet unstablenesse; now up, now doun, so renning is thy chaunce, that thee to truste may be no sikernesse. i wyte it nothing but thy doublenesse; and who that is an archer and is +blent marketh nothing, but sheteth as he +went. and for that he hath no discrecioun, withoute avys he let his arowe go; for lakke of sight, and also of resoun, in his shetinge, it happeth ofte so, to hurte his frend rather than his fo; so doth this god, [and] with his sharpe floon the trewe sleeth, and let the false goon. and of his wounding this is the worst of alle, whan he hurteth, he doth so cruel wreche and maketh the seke for to crye and calle unto his fo, for to been his leche; and hard it is, for a man to seche, upon the point of dethe in jupardye, unto his fo, to finde remedye! thus fareth it now even by me, that to my fo, that yaf myn herte a wounde, mote aske grace, mercy, and pitè, and namëly, ther wher non may be founde! for now my sore my leche wil confounde, and god of kinde so hath set myn ure, my lyves fo to have my wounde in cure! alas! the whyle now that i was born! or that i ever saw the brighte sonne! for now i see, that ful longe aforn, or i was born, my desteny was sponne by parcas sustren, to slee me, if they conne; for they my deth shopen or my sherte only for trouthe! i may it not asterte. the mighty goddesse also of nature that under god hath the governaunce of worldly thinges committed to her cure, disposed hath, through her wys purveyaunce, to yeve my lady so moche suffisaunce of al vertues, and therwithal purvyde to murdre trouthe, hath take daunger to gyde. for bountè, beautè, shappe, and semeliheed, prudence, wit, passingly fairnesse, benigne port, glad chere with lowliheed, of womanheed right plenteous largesse, nature did in her fully empresse, whan she her wroughte; and alther-last disdayne, to hinder trouthe, she made her chamberlayne; whan mistrust also, and fals-suspeccioun, with misbeleve, she made for to be cheef of counsayl to this conclusioun, for to exyle routhe, and eek pitè, out of her court to make mercy flee, so that dispyt now holdeth forth her reyne, through hasty bileve of tales that men feyne. and thus i am, for my trouthe, alas! murdred and slayn with wordes sharpe and kene, giltlees, god wot, of al maner trespas, and lye and blede upon this colde grene. now mercy, swete! mercy, my lyves quene! and to your grace of mercy yet i preye, in your servyse that your man may deye! but if so be that i shal deye algate, and that i shal non other mercy have, yet of my dethe let this be the date that by your wille i was brought to my grave; or hastily, if that you list me save, my sharpe woundes, that ake so and blede, of mercy, charme, and also of womanhede. for other charme, playnly, is ther non but only mercy, to helpe in this case; for though my woundes blede ever in oon, my lyf, my deeth, standeth in youre grace; and though my gilt be nothing, alas! i aske mercy in al my beste entente, redy to dye, if that ye assente. for ther-ayeines shal i never stryve in worde ne werke; playnly, i ne may; for lever i have than to be alyve to dye soothly, and it be her to pay; ye, though it be this eche same day or whan that ever her liste to devyse; suffyceth me to dye in your servyse. and god, that knowest the thought of every wight right as it is, in +al thing thou mayst see, yet, ere i dye, with all my fulle might lowly i pray, to graunte[n] unto me that ye, goodly, fayre, fresshe, and free, which slee me only for defaute of routhe, or that i dye, ye may knowe my trouthe. for that, in sothe, suffyseth unto me, and she it knowe in every circumstaunce; and after, i am wel apayd that she if that hir list, of dethe to do vengeaunce untó me, that am under her legeaunce; it sit me not her doom to disobeye, but, at her luste, wilfully to deye. withoute grucching or rebellioun in wille or worde, hoolly i assent, or any maner contradiccioun, fully to be at her commaundëment; and, if i dyë, in my testament my herte i sende, and my spirit also, what-so-ever she list, with hem to do. and alder-last unto her womanhede and to her mercy me i recommaunde, that lye now here, betwixe hope and drede, abyding playnly what she list commaunde. for utterly, (this nis no demaunde), welcome to me, whyl me lasteth breeth, right at her choise, wher it be lyf or deeth! in this matere more what mighte i seyn, sith in her hande and in her wille is al, both lyf and deeth, my joy and al my payn? and fynally, my heste holde i shal, til my spirit, by desteny fatal, whan that her liste, fro my body wende; have here my trouthe, and thus i make an ende!' and with that worde he gan syke as sore lyk as his herte ryve wolde atwayne, and held his pees, and spak a word no more. but, for to see his wo and mortal payne, the teres gonne fro myn eyen rayne ful pitously, for very inward routhe that i him saw so languisshing for trouthe. and al this whyle my-self i kepte cloos among the bowes, and my-self gan hyde, til, at the laste, the woful man aroos, and to a logge wente ther besyde, where, al the may, his custome was t'abyde, sole, to complaynen of his paynes kene, fro yeer to yere, under the bowes grene. and for bicause that it drow to the night and that the sonne his ark diurnál y-passed was, so that his persaunt light, his brighte bemes and his stremes al were in the wawes of the water fal, under the bordure of our ocëan, his char of golde his cours so swiftly ran: and whyl the twylight and the rowes rede of phebus light were dëaurat a lyte, a penne i took, and gan me faste spede the woful playntë of this man to wryte word by wordë, as he did endyte; lyk as i herde, and coude him tho reporte, i have here set, your hertes to disporte. if ought be mis, layeth the wyte on me, for i am worthy for to bere the blame if any thing [here] misreported be, to make this dytè for to seme lame through myn unconning; but, to sayn the same, lyk as this man his complaynt did expresse, i aske mercy and forgivënesse. and, as i wroot, me thoughte i saw a-ferre, fer in the weste, lustely appere esperus, the goodly brighte sterre, so glad, so fair, so persaunt eek of chere, i mene venus, with her bemes clere, that, hevy hertes only to releve, is wont, of custom, for to shewe at eve. and i, as faste, fel doun on my knee and even thus to her gan i to preye:-- 'o lady venus! so faire upon to see, let not this man for his trouthe deye, for that joy thou haddest whan thou leye with mars thy knight, whan vulcanus you fond, and with a chayne invisible you bond togider, bothe twayne, in the same whyle that al the court above celestial at youre shame gan for to laughe and smyle! a! fairë lady! welwilly founde at al, comfort to careful, o goddesse immortal! be helping now, and do thy diligence to let the stremes of thyn influence descende doun, in forthering of the trouthe, namely, of hem that lye in sorowe bounde; shew now thy might, and on hir wo have routhe er fals daunger slee hem and confounde. and specially, let thy might be founde for to socourë, what-so that thou may, the trewe man that in the herber lay, and alle trewe forther, for his sake, o gladde sterre, o lady venus myne! and cause his lady him to grace take. her herte of stele to mercy so enclyne, er that thy bemes go up, to declyne, and er that thou now go fro us adoun, fór that love thou haddest to adoun!' and whan that she was gon unto her reste, i roos anon, and hoom to bedde wente, for verily, me thoughte it for the beste; prayinge thus, in al my best entente, that alle trewe, that be with daunger shente, with mercy may, in reles of hir payn, recured be, er may come eft agayn. and for that i ne may no lenger wake, farewel, ye lovers alle, that be trewe! praying to god; and thus my leve i take, that, er the sonne to-morowe be risen newe, and er he have ayein his rosen hewe, that eche of you may have suche a grace, his owne lady in armes to embrace. i mene thus, that, in al honestee, withoute more, ye may togider speke what so ye listë, at good libertee, that eche may to other hir herte breke, on jelousyë only to be wreke, that hath so longe, of malice and envye, werreyed trouthe with his tirannye. lenvoy. princesse, plese it your benignitee this litel dytè for to have in mynde! of womanhedë also for to see your trewe man may youre mercy finde; and pitè eek, that long hath be behinde, let him ayein be próvoked to grace; for, by my trouthe, it is ayeines kinde, fals daunger for to occupye his place! go, litel quayre, unto my lyves queen, and my very hertes soverayne; and be right glad; for she shal thee seen; suche is thy grace! but i, alas! in payne am left behinde, and not to whom to playne. for mercy, routhe, grace, and eek pitè exyled be, that i may not attayne recure to finde of myn adversitè. _explicit._ _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ); _collated with_ f. (fairfax ); b. (bodley , _imperfect_); t. (tanner ); d. (digby ); s. (arch. selden b. ); _i have also consulted_ ad. (addit. ); _and_ p. (pepys ). . th. reed; f. d. rede. . s. his (_for nd_ the). . th. away; f. awey. . th. d. orizont; f. t. s. orisont. . th. bidde al; mss. _om._ al. f. t. _om._ lovers. . th. bade. f. t. d. s. _om. nd_ hem. . d. gladde; _rest_ glad. _all_ grey (_or_ gray). . th. bade; mss. bad. _all_ dispyte (dispite). . s. go take (_rest om._ go). . th. syghe. . f. out stert. . th. sicknesse; mss. sekenes. f. s. sat; _rest_ sate. th. aye. th. nye. . f. atte; t. at; _rest_ at the. s. sum; _rest_ some, su_m_me. p. reles; d. relece; t. relese; f. relesse; th. release. . f. halt; th. halte. . t. s. roos; _rest_ rose. th. thought. . th. wodde; s. wod; _rest_ wode. th. byrdes. . th. t. d. vapoure; f. s. vapour. f. d. agoon; t. th. agone. . f. morownyng; t. morownynge; th. moronyng. . th. lyke; f. lykyng (!); _rest_ like; _read_ lyk. . th. leaues. . f. the (_for_ hir). . th. d. splaye; f. t. s. splay; _read_ splayen. f. s. on; _rest_ in. . th. t. agayne; f. ageyn; d. ayen. s. gold; _rest_ golde. . th. t. downe; f. dovn; d. down; s. doun. . th. forthe. . f. berel; s. beriall; th. byrel; t. byrell; d. birele. . d. s. toward; f. tovard; th. t. towarde. . th. compace; mss. compas. . t. myghte; s. m_ich_ty (!); _rest_ might. th. gone; f. goon. . s. park; _rest_ parke. . t. wente; _rest_ went. th. byrdes; _rest_ briddes. s. song; _rest_ songe. . th. branches; f. t. d. braunches. th. and (_correctly_); _rest omit_. . th. sange; s. sang; p. song; f. t. d. songe. th. woode. s. p. rong; _rest_ ronge. . t. thoughte; th. f. d. thought. . t. myghte; _rest_ might. t. d. wraste; s. brest; th. f. wrest. . t. breste; d. braste; th. f. brest; s. to-brest. . f. t. p. tapites; th. d. tapettes. . th. f. t. -selfe (_better_ selve). f. celured; d. coloured; s. silu_er_ed; th. t. couered. . th. beautie. f. t. may not (_for_ may). . s. assaut; _rest_ assaute. . th. sphere; hotte. th. f. t. d. shone (_read_ shoon). , . s. wynd, kynd; _rest_ wynde, kynde. . s. p. among; _rest_ amonge. t. blossomes; d. blossoms; th. blosomes; f. blosmes. . _all_ holsom (holsum). th. f. t. d. and so; s. _om._ so. . f. t. blomes; s. blomys; th. blosmes; d. blossoms. . _all_ gan, can; _see_ l. . . s. that; _rest om._ f. their; t. theire; th. d. there; s. thai; _read_ hir. . f. d. ayens; th. ayenst; t. agayne. . t. s. saw; th. f. d. sawe (!). f. ther; _rest_ the; _cf._ l. . s. daphin; _rest_ daphene; _read_ daphne. . th. holsome; _rest_ holsom (-sum). . f. phibert; th. t. filberte; d. filberde; s. filbard. th. f. dothe. . th. s. adoun; _rest_ doun. . f. i-called; _rest_ called. . th. t. d. sawe. p. hawethorn; _rest_ hawthorn, hawthorne, hauthorne. . s. motle; f. motele; _rest_ motley. (_read_ swoot?). th. dothe smel. . _all_ asshe; _read_ ash. _all_ oke; _read_ ook. s. [gh]ong; t. fressh (!); _rest_ yonge. s. accorne; _rest_ acorne. . th. tel. . s. beforn; d. before; _rest_ beforne. th. sawe; wel. . t. cours; s. courss; _rest_ course. . th. hyl; quicke streames. . s. p. gold; d. colde; _rest_ golde. , . f. glas, gras; th. glasse, grasse. . wel. . ad. velowet. . th. t. d. lustely (t. lustily) came (cam) springyng; f. lustely gan syng (!); s. lustily gan spryng. . th. f. wel; t. d. welle. . _from this point i silently correct obvious errors in spelling of_ th. _by collation with the_ mss. th. holsome. s. and; _rest_ and so. . th. thorowe. s. there; _rest omit_. , , . _i read_ lyk _for_ lyke. . f. t. d. narcius (!). . t. dyde; _rest_ dyd, did. . s. cruell; _rest omit_. . th. that; _rest_ as. f. t. p. his; _rest_ her. . s. perce; d. perce; th. peerce; f. t. perysh (!) . th. ouermore (!). . th. f. thrust; t. thurste; p. d. thurst. . s. adoun; th. f. p. downe; _rest_ down, doun. - . s. _omits_. . th. delectable. . d. ynde; t. iende; f. cende (?); th. gende; s. of inde. . s. constreynt; _rest_ constraynyng. . th. priuely me; _rest_ me priuely. (_read_ busshes prively me shroude?). . th. _om. nd_ his. . _for_ among _perhaps read_ anon. . s. the; _rest omit_. . th. therto; _rest_ there. . f. p. awaped. . d. hem; s. thame; _rest om._ . th. _om._ this. . _so all._ . f. delful; t. delefull; s. dulefull; d. doilfull. . s. quhoso; _rest_ who. s. writen; _rest_ write (wryte). . d. no knowyng haue; _rest_ haue no knowyng. . s. writen; _rest_ write (wryte). . f. s. as; _rest om._ . th. disencrease; f. disencrese; t. disencrece; d. disencrees. . s. louyng. . f. hindered; s. hind_er_it; _rest_ hindred. . f. t. deleful; s. dulfull; d. wofull. . s. grete; _rest om._ . s. with full; _rest omit_ (_i omit_ full). compleynt; _in_ f. _only_. . d. grownded. . f. s. dule; d. dooll. . th. t. chyuer; f. shyuer; d. chevir; s. chill. . t. d. fro; s. from; th. f. for (_twice_). . th. t. d. yse; f. ise; s. iss. . s. distress. . _so_ d. p.; s. doth his besyness; th. euer doth his besy payne; f. eu_er_e doth besy peyn; t. euur doth his bysy hate (_sic_). . t. agaynes; f. d. ayens; th. ayenst; s. a[gh]eynis. s. and to; _rest om._ to. . th. _om._ wolde. . t. wolde; s. wold; th. d. wol; f. will. . t. myghte; th. f. might. . s. for; _rest om._ , . t. d. lette, whette; th. f. let, whet. _all_ despite. . s. a[gh]eynes; t. agaynes; f. d. ayens; th. agaynst. . p. of wrath. . s. a[gh]eynes; t. agaynes; f. d. ayens; th. agaynst. , . th. tel, bel; _rest_ telle, belle. s. rong; f. t. d. ronge; th. range. , . s. lond, fond; _rest_ londe, fonde. . th. d. falshode; f. s. falshed; t. falsehede. . th. d. be; _rest_ ben. . s. sat; _rest_ sate, satte. . f. non ne may; _rest_ may non. . d. oth; s. soth; _rest_ othe. . th. f. t. p. clepe; d. speke; s. cleke (!). . t. d. full_e_; th. f. ful. . th. s. one; _rest_ oon. . f. more (_for_ any). . th. cal. . th. fal. . th. al. . _all_ the name; _i omit_ the. . _all_ the blame; _read_ ber'the. , . d. lowlyheed, speed; _rest_ -hede, spede. . _all_ vn-to; _read_ to. . f. sithe; s. sithen; _rest_ sith. . _perhaps omit_ his. d. payn; t. peyn; _rest_ payne (peyne). . s. bet; f. bette; _rest_ better. . th. f. _om. nd_ his. . t. lady; f. ladye; _rest_ ladyes. . d. perelees; f. t. s. p. pereles; th. peerles. . t. liste of hym; s. can of him. . f. gades; s. gadis; _rest_ gaddes. . th. p. _om._ ben. . s. y-sett; d. sette. . _i supply_ he. . s. [gh]it; _rest omit_. . s. fresch; _rest omit_. . t. dide; _rest_ did. . s. eke; _rest omit_. . f. tereus (_for_ theseus). . f. falshed; s. falshede. . _i supply_ knight. . _all_ eke; _read_ also. _i supply_ al. . s. and thair (_for_ and hir); _rest omit_ thair (= hir). . th. lieges. . _so all._ . s. worthi kny_ch_t & hir trew; _rest omit_ worthi _and_ trew. _i follow_ s.; _but omit_ and. . f. t. ipomones; th. ypomedes; s. p. ypomenes; d. ipomeus. . _i supply_ was. . f. lovers; t. louys; _rest_ loues. . s. trewe; _rest_ trewe men. . th. moost. . d. s. oth; _rest_ othe. . f. p. s. port; _rest_ porte. . s. no; _rest omit_. . th. lytel; p. litill; d. litle; _rest_ lyte. . f. nother; _rest_ nor. . th. syknesse; f. sekenesse. . d. iupardy; _rest_ in partynge (_for_ iupartynge); _read_ juparting; cf. l. . . f. fals (_error for_ false); _rest omit_. . s. double (_for_ pitous). . s. falss; _rest om._ . th. f. p. bye; d. bie; t. bey; s. by. . th. t. s. sene; f. seen; p. d. seyn. . th. sticken; p. d. stekyn. . s. p. the; _rest om._ . s. [gh]it; _rest om._ . _i supply_ she. s. ysuorn; _rest om._ y-. . th. _om._ have. . t. d. s. aboue (_for_ of love); _see_ l. . . s. blend (_read_ blent); _rest_ blynde (blinde). . s. as he wend (_read_ went); th. by wende (!); _rest_ by wenynge (!). . f. t. avise; d. avice; s. aviss; th. aduyse. . s. p. frend; _rest_ frende. . b. _begins here_. _i supply_ and. . t. lette; f. leteth; th. letteth; b. d. letith; s. lattith. . b. f. s. he doth; th. t. doth to. . th. ieopardye; s. iup_ar_tye; f. partie (!); b. d. t. iupardye; p. iupard. . th. systerne. . s. haue schapen (_for_ shopen). . f. hath; th. haue. . f. b. plentevous. th. largnesse. . th. trouthe; s. treuth; _rest_ routhe; _see_ l. . . th. gyltlesse; f. giltles; p. gylteles. . f. b. p. ye (_for_ you). . f. b. s. gilt; _rest_ gylte (gilte). . s. a[gh]eynes; t. agaynes; f. b. d. ayens; th. agaynst. . s. [gh]ow to pay; _rest_ her to pay. . th. _om._ eche. . t. d. liste; _rest_ list. . _all_ euery; _read_ al. . _all_ graunte (graunt); _read_ graunten. . th. onely sle me; mss. slee me only. . s. vnto; _rest om._ . s. if (_for_ and). . s. apaid; _rest_ payd (paid). . _for_ to _read_ shal? . f. p. legeaunce; th. d. ligeaunce; t. lygeaunce. . t. d. luste; th. f. b. lust. s. quherso hir list to do me lyue or deye. . s. hoolly; th. holy. . th. t. d. lyste; f. s. p. list. . s. vnto; _rest_ to. . s. quhill þ_a_t me. . th. mater. . f. b. p. hest. . t. liste; _rest_ list (lust). . t. sike; s. to sike; th. d. sygh; f. b. sile (!). . th. no worde. . th. long wisshing (!). th. s. for; f. b. d. p. for his; t. for her. . s. p. gan; _rest_ gonne (gunne). . s. compleynen; _rest_ complayne. . t. faste; _rest_ fast. . _i supply_ here. . th. dytte. . t. d. weste; _rest_ west. . t. d. faste; _rest_ fast. s. d. f. doun; th. adowne; d. t. adoun. . t. you; _rest om._ . s. for to; _rest om._ . mss. welwilly; th. wyl i (!). . th. socouer (_misprint_). . s. vnto; _rest_ to. . s. verily; th. t. d. wery (!); b. very wery (!); f. werry wery (!); p. very. . f. b. reles; t. d. relese; th. release; s. relesche. . th. t. s. p. _om._ his. . th. _om._ that. . th. ialousyes; d. ielosies; _rest_ ielosye. . t. b. p. of; _rest_ of his. . s. werreyed; d. werried; _rest_ werred. . mss. princes; th. pryncesse. th. pleaseth; f. pleseth; p. plesith (_read_ plese). th. it to your; _rest om._ to. . s. p. for; _rest om._ . th. d. _om._ trewe. . s. for; _rest om._ * * * * * ix. the flour of curtesye. in fevrier, whan the frosty mone was horned, ful of phebus fyry light, and that she gan to reyse her stremes sone, saint valentyne! upon thy blisful night of duëtee, whan glad is every wight, and foules chese (to voyde hir olde sorowe) everich his make, upon the nexte morowe; the same tyme, i herde a larke singe ful lustely, agayn the morowe gray-- 'awake, ye lovers, out of your slombringe, this gladde morowe, in al the haste ye may; some óbservaunce doth unto this day, your choise ayen of herte to renewe in cónfirming, for ever to be trewe! and ye that be, of chesing, at your large, this lusty day, by custome of nature, take upon you the blisful holy charge to serve lovë, whyl your lyf may dure, with herte, body, and al your besy cure, for evermore, as venus and cipryde for you disposeth, and the god cupyde. for joye owe we playnly to obeye unto this lordes mighty ordinaunce, and, mercilesse, rather for to deye than ever in you be founden variaunce; and, though your lyf be medled with grevaunce, and, at your herte, closed be your wounde, beth alway one, ther-as ye are bounde!' thát whan i had herd, and listed longe, with devout herte, the lusty melodye of this hevenly comfortable songe so ágreable, as by harmonye, i roos anon, and faste gan me hye toward a grove, and the way [gan] take foules to sene, everich chese his make. and yet i was ful thursty in languisshing; myn ague was so fervent in his hete, whan aurora, for drery complayning, can distille her cristal teres wete upon the soile, with silver dewe so swete; for she [ne] durste, for shame, not apere under the light of phebus bemes clere. and so, for anguisshe of my paynes kene, and for constraynte of my sighes sore, i sette me doun under a laurer grene ful pitously; and alway more and more, as i beheld into the holtes hore, i gan complayne myn inward deedly smerte, that ay so sore +crampisshed myn herte. and whyl that i, in my drery payne, sat, and beheld aboute on every tree the foules sitten, alway twayne and twayne, than thoughte i thus: 'alas! what may this be, that every foul hath his libertee frely to chesen after his desyre everich his make thus, fro yeer to yere? the sely wrenne, the titmose also, the litel redbrest, have free eleccioun to flyen y-ferë and +togider go wher-as hem liste, abouten enviroun, as they of kynde have inclinacoun, and as nature, emperesse and gyde, of every thing, liste to provyde; but man aloon, alas! the harde stounde! ful cruelly, by kyndes ordinaunce, constrayned is, and by statut bounde, and debarred from alle such plesaunce. what meneth this? what is this purveyaunce of god above, agayn al right of kynde, withoute cause, so narowe man to bynde?' thus may i [soothly] seen, and playne, alas! my woful houre and my disaventure, that dolefully stonde in the same cas so fer behyndë, from al helth and cure. my wounde abydeth lyk a sursanure; for me fortune so felly list dispose, my harm is hid, that i dar not disclose. for i my herte have set in suche a place wher i am never lykly for to spede; so fer i am hindred from her grace that, save daunger, i have non other mede. and thus, alas! i not who shal me rede ne for myn helpe shape remedye, for male-bouche, and for false envye: the whiche twayne ay stondeth in my wey maliciously; and fals suspeccioun is very causë also that i dey, ginning and rote of my distruccioun; so that i fele, [as] in conclusioun, with hir traynes that they wol me shende, of my labour that deth mot make an ende! yet, or i dye, with herte, wil, and thought to god of lovë this avowe i make, (as i best can, how dere that it be bought, wher-so it be, that i slepe or wake, whyl boreas doth the leves shake) as i have hight, playnly, til i sterve, for wele or wo, that i shal [ay] her serve. and, for her sake, now this holy tyme, saint valentyne! somwhat shal i wryte al-though so be that i can not ryme, nor curiously by no crafte endyte, yet lever i have, that she putte the wyte in unconning than in negligence, what-ever i sayë of her excellence. what-ever i saye, it is of duëtee, in sothfastnesse and no presumpcioun; this i ensure to you that shal it see, that it is al under correccioun; what i reherce in commendacioun of herë that i shal to you, as blyve, so as i can, her vertues here discryve.-- ¶ right by example as the somer-sonne passeth the sterre with his bemes shene, and lucifer among the skyës donne a-morowe sheweth to voyde nightes tene, so verily, withouten any wene, my lady passeth (who-so taketh hede) al tho alyve, to speke of womanhede. and as the ruby hath the soveraintè of riche stones and the regalyë; and [as] the rose, of swetnesse and beautè, of fresshe floures, withouten any lyë; right so, in sothe, with her goodly yë, she passeth al in bountee and fairnesse, of maner ekë, and of gentilnesse. for she is bothe the fairest and the beste, to reken al in very sothfastnesse; for every vertue is in her at reste; and furthermore, to speke of stedfastnesse, she is the rotë; and of seemlinesse the very mirrour; and of governaunce to al example, withouten variaunce. of port benigne, and wonder glad of chere, having evermore her trewe advertence alway to reson; so that her desyre is brydeled ay by witte and providence; thereto, of wittë and of hy prudence she is the wellë, ay devoide of pryde, that unto vertue her-selven is the gyde! and over this, in her daliaunce lowly she is, discret, wyse, [and secree], and goodly gladde by attemperaunce, that every wight, of high and low degree, are gladde in herte with her for to be; só that, shortly, if i shal not lye, she named is 'the flour of curtesye.' and there, to speke of femininitee, the leste mannish in comparisoun, goodly abasshed, having ay pitee of hem that been in tribulacioun; for she aloon is consolacioun to al that arn in mischeef and in nede, to comforte hem, of her womanhede. and ay in vertue is her besy charge, sadde and demure, and but of wordes fewe; dredful also of tonges that ben large, eschewing ay hem that listen to hewe above hir heed, hir wordes for to shewe, dishonestly to speke of any wight; she deedly hateth of hem to have a sight. the herte of whom so honest is and clene, and her entent so faithful and entere that she ne may, for al the world, sustene to suffre her eres any word to here, of frend nor fo, neither fer ne nere, amis resowning, that hinder shulde his name; and if she do, she wexeth reed for shame. so trewëly in mening she is set, without chaunging or any doublenesse; for bountee and beautee ar togider knet in her personë, under faithfulnesse; for void she is of newëfangelnesse; in herte ay oon, for ever to perséver ther she is set, and never to dissever. i am to rude her vertues everichoon cunningly [for] to discryve and wryte; for wel ye wot, colour[es] have i noon lyk her discrecioun craftely t'endyte; for what i sayë, al it is to lyte. whérfor to you thus i me excuse, that i aqueynted am not with no muse! by rethoryke my style to governe, in her preyse and commendacioun, i am to blind, so hyly to discerne, of her goodnesse to make discripcioun, save thus i sayë, in conclusioun, if that i shal shortly [her] commende, in her is naught that nature can amende. for good she is, lyk to policene, and, in fairnesse, to the quene helayne; stedfast of herte, as was dorigene, and wyfly trouthë, if i shal not fayne: in constaunce eke and faith, she may attayne to cleopatre; and therto as +secree as was of troye the whyte antigone; as hester meke; lyk judith of prudence; kynde as alceste or marcia catoun; and to grisilde lyk in pacience, and ariadne, of discrecioun; and to lucrece, that was of rome toun, she may be lykned, as for honestè; and, for her faith, unto penelope. to faire phyllis and to hipsiphilee, for innocencë and for womanhede; for seemlinessë, unto canacee; and over this, to speke of goodlihede, she passeth alle that i can of rede; for worde and dede, that she naught ne falle, acorde in vertue, and her werkes alle. for though that dydo, with [her] witte sage, was in her tyme stedfast to enee, of hastinesse yet she did outrage; and so for jason did also medee. but my lady is so avisee that, bountee and beautee bothe in her demeyne, she maketh bountee alway soverayne. this is to mene, bountee goth afore, lad by prudence, and hath the soveraintee; and beautee folweth, ruled by her lore, that she +n'offendë her in no degree; so that, in one, this goodly fresshe free surmounting al, withouten any were, is good and fair, in oon persone y-fere. and though that i, for very ignoraunce, ne may discryve her vertues by and by, yet on this day, for a rémembraunce, only supported under her mercy, with quaking hondë, i shal ful humbly to her hynesse, my rudenes for to quyte, a litel balade here bineth endyte, ever as i can suppryse in my herte, alway with fere, betwixe drede and shame, lest out of lose any word asterte in this metre, to make it seme lame; chaucer is deed, that hadde suche a name of fair making, that [was], withoute wene, fairest in our tonge, as the laurer grene. we may assaye for to counterfete his gaye style, but it wil not be; the welle is drye, with the licour swete, bothe of clio and of caliopè; and first of al, i wol excuse me to her, that is [the] ground of goodlihede; and thus i saye until hir womanhede:-- balade simple. ¶ 'with al my mightë, and my beste entente, with al the faith that mighty god of kynde me yaf, sith he me soule and knowing sente, i chese, and to this bonde ever i me bynde, to love you best, whyl i have lyf and mynde':-- thus herde i foules in the dawëninge upon the day of saint valentyne singe. 'yet chese i, at the ginning, in this entente, to love you, though i no mercy fynde; and if you liste i dyed, i wolde assente, as ever twinne i quik out of this lynde! suffyseth me to seen your fetheres ynde':-- thus herde i foules in the morweninge upon the day of saint valentyne singe. 'and over this, myn hertes lust to-bente, in honour only of the wodëbynde, hoolly i yeve, never to repente in joye or wo, wher-so that i wynde tofore cupyde, with his eyën blynde':-- the foules alle, whan tytan did springe, with dévout herte, me thoughte i herde singe! lenvoy. ¶ princesse of beautee, to you i represente this simple dytè, rude as in makinge, of herte and wil faithful in myn entente, lyk as, this day, [the] foules herde i singe. here endeth the flour of curtesye. _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ). title: th. the floure of curtesy; (ed. _adds_--made by ihon lidgate). _i note here the rejected spellings._ . feverier. . firy. . streames. . dutie. . her. . eueryche; next. . agayne. . glad. . dothe. . chosyng. . whyle; lyfe. . cipride. . obey. . lyfe. . closet. . there. . herde. . deuoute. . ermonye. . rose. . towarde; _supply_ gan. . eueryche chose. . distyl; (_read_ distille); chrystal teeres. . _supply_ ne. . beames. . set; downe. . behelde. . inwarde. . aye; crampessh at (_read_ crampisshed). . whyle. . sate; behelde; tre. . sytte (_read_ sitten). . thought. . foule. . chose (_read_ chesen). . eueryche; yere to yere. . tytemose. . election. . togyther (_read_ togider). . where as; lyst aboute envyron. . inclynacion. . empresse (_read_ emperesse). . lyst. . alone. . statute. . al suche. . agayne. . without. . _supply_ soothly; sene. . doulfully; caas. . ferre. . lyke. . lyste. . harme; dare. . lykely. . ferre. . none. . myne. . aye. . false suspection. . distruction. . _supply_ as; conclusyon. . dethe mote. . howe. . where so. . whyle; dothe; leaues. . wel; _supply_ ay. . nowe. . put. . say; dute (_read_ duetee). . presumpcion. . se. . correction. . co_m_mendacion. . her (_read_ here). . beames. . amonge. . _supply_ as; swetenesse. . without. . eye. . bountie; fayrenesse. . reken (_read_ reknen?). . semelynesse. . reason. . aye. . hye. . aye. . discrete and wyse (_read_ discret wyse; _and supply_ secree _for the rime_). . lowe. . glad. . floure. . femynyte (!). . mannyshe; comparison. . aye pyte. . ben; trybulacion. . alone; -cion. . arne; mischefe. . aye. . dredeful. . aye. . her (_twice_.) . worlde. . eeres; worde. . frende; foe; ferre. . amysse. . trewly; is in sette (_om._ in). . bountie; beautie are togyther knette. . voyde; newfanglenesse (_or read_ voide _and_ newfangelnesse). . aye one. . there; sette. . euerychone. . _supply_ for. . colour; none. . lyke; to endyte. . say. . wherfore. . co_m_mendacion. . blynde; hylye. . discrypcion. . say; conclusyon. . _supply_ her. . lyke. . fayrenesse. . wyfely. . faythe. . setrone (!); _read_ secree (_see note_). . lyke. . alcest. . lyke. . lykened. . faythe. . semelynesse; canace. . al. , . fal, al. . _supply_ her. . bountie; beautie. . bountie. . meane bountie gothe. . beautie foloweth. . ne fende (!); degre. . fre. . fayre; one. . onely. . rudenesse. . feare; betwyxt. . leste; worde. . had. . fayre; _supply_ was; without. . assay. . gay. . lycoure. . clye (!). . _supply_ the; grounde. . say. . might; best entent. . faythe. . yaue; sent. . whyle; lyfe. . daunynge. , . saynte valentyne (? _om._ saynte). . begynnyng (_read_ ginning); entent. . assent. . quicke; lyne (_misprint_). . sene; fethers. . mornynge (_for_ morweninge). . myne; luste. . onely; wodde bynde. . holy. . where so. . al. . deuoute hert; thought. . lenvoye. beautie; represent. . entent. . lyke; _supply_ the. colophon: floure; curtesy. * * * * * x. a balade; in commendation of our lady. (a devoute balade by lidegate of bury, made at the reverence of oure lady, qwene of mercy.--a.) a thousand stories coude i mo reherce of olde poetes, touching this matere, how that cupyde the hertes gan so perce of his servauntes, setting hem on fere; lo, here the fyn of th'errour and the were! lo, here of love the guerdon and grevaunce that ever with wo his servaunts doth avaunce! wherfor now playnly i wol my style dresse of one to speke, at nede that wol nat fayle; alas! for dole, i ne can ne may expresse her passing pryse, and that is no mervayle. o wind of grace, now blow into my sayle! o aureat licour of cleo, for to wryte my penne enspyre, of that i wolde endyte! alas! unworthy i am and unable to love suche oon, al women surmounting, to be benigne to me, and merciable, that is of pitè the welle and eek the spring! wherfor of her, in laude and in praysing, so as i can, supported by her grace, right thus i say, kneling tofore her face:-- o sterre of sterres, with thy stremes clere, sterre of the see, to shipmen light and gyde, o lusty living, most plesaunt to apere, whos brighte bemes the cloudes may not hyde; o way of lyf to hem that go or ryde, haven from tempest, surest up to ryve, on me have mercy, for thy joyes fyve! o rightful rule, o rote of holinesse, and lightsom lyne of pitè for to playne, original ginning of grace and al goodnesse, clenest conduit of vertue soverayne, moder of mercy, our trouble to restrayne, chambre and closet clenest of chastitè, and named herberwe of the deitè! o hoolsom garden, al voyde of wedes wikke, cristallin welle, of clennesse clere consigned, fructif olyve, of foyles faire and thikke, and redolent cedre, most dereworthly digned, remembre on sinners unto thee assigned er wikked fendes hir wrathe upon hem wreche; lanterne of light, thou be hir lyves leche! paradyse of plesaunce, gladsom to al good, benigne braunchelet of the pyne-tree, vyneyerd vermayle, refressher of our food, licour ayein languor, palled that may not be, blisful bawme-blossom, byding in bountè, thy mantel of mercy on our mischef sprede, and er wo wake, wrappe us under thy wede! o rody rosier, flouring withouten spyne, fountayne filthles, as beryl currant clere, som drope of graceful dewe to us propyne; light withoute nebule, shyning in thy spere, medecyne to mischeves, pucelle withouten pere, flame doun to doleful light of thyn influence on thy servauntes, for thy magnificence! of al christen protectrice and tutele, retour of exyled, put in prescripcioun to hem that erre in the pathe of hir sequele; to wery wandred tent and pavilioun, the feynte to fresshe, and the pausacioun; unto unresty bothe reste and remedye, fruteful to al tho that in her affye. to hem that rennen thou art itinerárie, o blisful bravie to knightes of thy werre; to wery werkmen thou art diourn denárie, mede unto mariners that have sayled ferre; laureat crowne, streming as a sterre to hem that putte hem in palestre for thy sake, cours of her conquest, thou whyte as any lake! thou mirthe of martyrs, sweter than citole, of confessours also richest donatyf, unto virgynes eternal lauriole, afore al women having prerogatyf; moder and mayde, bothe widowe and wyf, of al the worlde is noon but thou alone! now, sith thou may, be socour to my mone! o trusty turtle, trewest of al trewe, o curteyse columbe, replete of al mekenesse, o nightingale with thy notes newe, o popinjay, plumed with al clennesse, o laverok of love, singing with swetnesse, phebus, awayting til in thy brest he lighte under thy winge at domesday us dighte! o ruby, rubifyed in the passioun al of thy sone, among have us in minde, o stedfast dyamaunt of duracioun, that fewe feres that tyme might thou finde, for noon to him was founden half so kinde! o hardy herte, o loving crëature, what was it but love that made thee so endure? semely saphyre, depe loupe, and blewe ewage, stable as the loupe, ewage of pitè, this is to say, the fresshest of visage, thou lovest hem unchaunged that serven thee. and if offence or wrything in hem be, thou art ay redy upon hir wo to rewe, and hem receyvest with herte ful trewe. o goodly gladded, whan that gabriel with joy thee grette that may not be nombred! or half the blisse who coude wryte or tel whan the holy goost to thee was obumbred, wherthrough fendes were utterly encombred? o wemlees mayde, embelisshed in his birthe, that man and aungel therof hadden mirthe! lo, here the blossom and the budde of glorie, of which the prophet spak so longe aforn; lo, here the same that was in memórie of isaie, so longe or she was born; lo, here of david the delicious corn; lo, here the ground that list [him] to onbelde, becoming man, our raunsom for to yelde! o glorious vyole, o vytre inviolat! o fyry tytan, persing with thy bemes, whos vertuous brightnes was in thy brest vibrat, that al the world embelisshed with his lemes! conservatrice of kingdomes and remes; of isaies sede o swete sunamyte, mesure my mourning, myn owne margaryte! o sovereignest, sought out of sion, o punical pome ayens al pestilence; and aureat urne, in whom was bouk and boon the agnelet, that faught for our offence ayens the serpent with so high defence that lyk a lyoun in victorie he was founde; to him commende us, of mercy most habounde! o precious perle, withouten any pere, cockle with gold dew from above berayned, thou busshe unbrent, fyrles set a-fere, flambing with fervence, not with hete payned; thou during daysye, with no +weder stayned; flees undefouled of gentil gedeon, and fructifying yerd thou of aaron. thou misty arke, probatik piscyne, laughing aurora, and of pees olyve; columpne and base, up bering from abyme; why nere i conning, thee for to discryve? chosen of joseph, whom he took to wyve, unknowing him, childing by greet mirácle, and of our manhode trewe tabernacle! _from_ th.; _collated with_ a. (ashmole ); _and_ sl. (sloane ). . a. i kouþe to you. . a. clerkis (_for_ poetes); the (_for_ this). . a. cane mens hertes presse (!). . th. hem; a. þeire hertes. th. in fere; a. a fuyre. . a. with ful daunger payeþe his subgettes hyre. sl. weere; th. fere. . th. sl. euer; a. aye. sl. a. his ... doth; th. her ... do. . th. nowe; a. _om._ sl. redresse. . a. ellas i ne can ne may not ful expresse. . th. sl. and that; a. the whiche. . th. wynde. sl. into; th. unto. a. þou blowe nowe to my. . th. auryate; a. aureate. a. _om._ of. . a. tenspyre of whiche i thenk to wryte. sl. wold; th. wol. . a. but sith i am sonworthy (!). . sl. on; th. a. one. . a. to; th. sl. but she. . a. whiche of pytee is welle. . th. sl. of; a. to. . th. sl. can; a. am. . a. o souereine sterre. . sl. lemand (_for_ living). sl. most; th. a. moste. . th. whose bright beames. th. sl. may; a. cane. . a. lyff; th. sl. lyfe. . a. frome; th. sl. after. . sl. rote; th. a. bote. . a. gynnyng of grace and; th. sl. begynning of grace and al. . a. clennest; th. and clenest. th. sl. _ins._ most _bef._ sovereyne. . a. moder; th. mother. . a. al cloose closette; th. sl. and closet clennest. . th. herbrough; sl. herberwe. a. the hyest herber (!) of al the. . a. holsome; th. sl. closed. a. _om._ al. . a. welle cristallyne. a. sl. clennesse; th. clerenesse. . a. fructyff; th. fructyfyed. th. fayre; a. so feyre. . a. _om._ and. a. _om._ most. . a _om._ on. sl. pecchours (_for_ sinners). a. unto; th. sl. that to the be. . th. sl. or wikked; a. er foule. a. on hem þeire wrathe. sl. upon; th. on. . th. _om._ be. . a. thou paradys plesante, gladnesse of goode. . a. and benigne braunche. . a. vyneyerde vermayle; th. sl. vynarie enuermayled. sl. food; th. a. bote. . th. ayen al langour; a. geyne langoure. a. palde that; th. sl. that palled. . sl. blisful bawme; a. thou blessed; th. blysful blomy. . sl. misericord on our myschef. th. on our myserie; a. vppon vs spilt thou. . th. awake. a. wake and wrappe vs ay vnder. . a. o rede roos raylling withouten. th. without. . th. al fylthlesse; a. _om._ al. a. currant as beryle. th. byrel. . th. sl. of thy; _i omit_ thy. a. grace of thy dewe til vs thou do propyne. . th. o light; sl. thou lyght. a. thou louely light, shynynge in bright spere. . a. missers; th. mischeues; sl. myscheuows. a. withouten; th. without. . th. flambe; a. dryve. sl. to; th. a. the. a. _om._ doleful. . a. on; th. sl. rem_em_bring. . sl. retour; th. returne; a. recure. a. sl. in; th. in the. . a. to therroures of the pathe sequele. . a. for (_for_ to). sl. wandrid; th. forwandred; a. wandering. . _so_ a. th. to faynte and to fresshe the. . a. to wery wightes ful reste. . th. tho that; a. that hem. a. _omits_ ll. - . . th. arte. . sl. thou art; th. she is. th. diourne. . th. laureate. . th. put; palastre. . sl. thow; th. o. th. myrthe; swetter; sytole. . sl. _om._ also. th. donatyfe. . th. -tyfe. . th. mother; wyfe. . sl. in all this. sl. noon; th. none. . sl. trewest; th. truefastest. . sl. plumed; th. pured. . sl. larke. . sl. in; th. on. , . lyght, dyght. . passyon. . sl. all_e_; th. _om._ th. sonne. sl. among haue us; th. vs haue amonge. . sl. dyamaunt; th. dyametre. . sl. that; th. any. . halfe. . the. . th. saphre (_sic_); sl. saffyr. . _so_ sl. th. unchaunged hem. . sl. writhyng; th. varyeng. . arte; her. . hert; _see note_. . gladed. . the. . goste; the. . sl. vtterly; th. bytterly. . wemlesse. th. in; sl. with. . blosme. . th. prophete; sl. prophetys. sl. spak so long aforn; th. so longe spake beforne. , . borne, corne. . th. of lyfe in to bilde; sl. that list to onbelde. . sl. o vitre; th. and vyte. th. inuyolate. . th. _om._ thy; vibrate. . sl. his; th. the. . sl. kyngdamys; th. kynges dukes. sl. remys; th. realmes. . sl. o; th. _om._ . a. souereine. th. a. sought; sl. sowth. th. out of; sl. of out; a. fer oute. - . _in_ sl. _only_. . sl. alle. . sl. auryat; book and born (!); _see note_. . sl. victory. . sl. moost. . sl. ony. . th. golde dewe; a. glorie. . a. sl. thou; th. dewe (!). sl. ferlett (!) set affere; a. fuyrles thou sette vppon; th. fyrelesse fyre set on. . sl. peyned; a. empeyred (!). . sl. th. _om._ thou. a. with; th. that. th. a. wether. a. disteyned. . th. fleece. a. gentyle; th. gentylest. . th. sl. _insert_ fayrest _after_ fructifyeng (_sic_). a. yerde thowe; th. sl. the yerde. . a. thowe; sl. th. the. sl. mysti; th. a. mighty. sl. probatyk; th. probatyfe; a. the probatyf. . a. aurora; th. aurore. a. tholyve; sl. th. olyue. . a. pillor from base beryng from abysme. . a. why nad i langage. sl. the for; a. hir for; th. here. . th. toke. a. chosen of god, whome joseph gaf (!) to wyve. . th. sl. childyng; a. bare cryste. th. sl. _om._ greet. . th. and of our manly figure the; sl. and of oure mar (!) figure; a. and of ihesus manhode truwe. * * * * * xi. to my soverain lady. i have non english convenient and digne myn hertes hele, lady, thee with t'honoure, ivorie clene; therfore i wol resigne in-to thyn hand, til thou list socoure to help my making bothe florisshe and floure; than shulde i shewe, in love how i brende, in songes making, thy name to commende. for if i coude before thyn excellence singen in love, i wolde, what i fele, and ever standen, lady, in thy presence, to shewe in open how i love you wele; and sith, although your herte be mad of stele, to you, withoute any disseveraunce, _j'ay en vous toute ma fiaunce_. wher might i love ever better besette than in this lilie, lyking to beholde? the lace of love, the bond so wel thou knette, that i may see thee or myn herte colde, and or i passe out of my dayes olde, tofore singing evermore utterly-- 'your eyën two wol slee me sodainly.' for love i langour, blissed be such seknesse, sith it is for you, my hertely suffisaunce; i can not elles saye, in my distresse, so fair oon hath myn herte in governaunce; and after that i +ginne on esperaunce with feble entune, though it thyn herte perce, yet for thy sake this lettre i do reherce. god wot, on musike i can not, but i gesse, (alas! why so?) that i might say or singe, so love i you, myn own soverain maistresse, and ever shal, withouten départinge. mirrour of beautè, for you out shuld i ringe, in rémembraunce eke of your eyen clere, thus fer from you, my soverain lady dere! so wolde god your love wold me slo, sith, for your sake, i singe day by day; herte, why nilt thou [never] breke a-two, sith with my lady dwellen i ne may? thus many a roundel and many a virelay in fresshe englisshe, whan i me layser finde, i do recorde, on you to have minde! now, lady myn! sith i you love and drede, and you unchaunged finde, in o degree, whos grace ne may flye fro your womanhede, disdayneth not for to remembre on me! myn herte bledeth, for i may nat you see; and sith ye wot my mening désirous, _pleurez pur moi, si vous plaist amorous!_ what marveyle is, though i in payne be? i am departed from you, my soveraine; fortune, alas! _dont vient la destenee_, that in no wyse i can ne may attayne to see the beautè of your eyën twayne. wherfore i say, for tristesse doth me grame, _tant me fait mal departir de ma dame!_ why nere my wisshing brought to suche esploit that i might say, for joye of your presence, '_ore a man cuer ce quil veuilloit,_ _ore a man cuer_ the highest excellence that ever had wight;' and sith myn advertence is in you, reweth on my paynes smerte, i am so sore wounded to the herte. to live wel mery, two lovers were y-fere, so may i say withouten any blame; if any man [per cas] to wilde were, i coude him [sonë] teche to be tame; let him go love, and see wher it be game! for i am brydled unto sobernesse for her, that is of women cheef princesse. but ever, whan thought shulde my herte embrace, than unto me is beste remedye, whan i loke on your goodly fresshe face; so mery a mirrour coude i never espye; and, if i coude, i wolde it magnifye. for never non was [here] so faire y-founde, to reken hem al, and also rosamounde. and fynally, with mouthe and wil present of double eye, withoute repentaunce, myn herte i yeve you, lady, in this entent, that ye shal hoolly therof have governaunce; taking my leve with hertes obeysaunce, '_salve, regina!_' singing laste of al, to be our helpe, whan we to thee cal! al our lovë is but ydelnesse save your aloon; who might therto attayne? who-so wol have a name of gentillesse, i counsayle him in love that he not fayne. thou swete lady! refut in every payne, whos [pitous] mercy most to me avayleth to gye by grace, whan that fortune fayleth. nought may be told, withouten any fable, your high renome, your womanly beautè; your governaunce, to al worship able, putteth every herte in ese in his degree. o violet, _o flour desiree_, sith i am for you so amorous, _estreynez moy_, [lady,] _de cuer joyous_! with fervent herte my brest hath broste on fyre; _l'ardant espoir que mon cuer poynt, est mort,_ _d'avoir l'amour de celle que je desyre_, i mene you, swete, most plesaunt of port, _et je sai bien que ceo n'est pas mon tort_ that for you singe, so as i may, for mone for your departing; alone i live, alone. though i mighte, i wolde non other chese; in your servyce, i wolde be founden sad; therfore i love no labour that ye lese, whan, in longing, sorest ye be stad; loke up, ye lovers [alle], and be right glad ayeines sëynt valentynes day, for i have chose that never forsake i may! _explicit._ _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ); _i note rejected spellings_. . none englysshe. . heale; the; to honour. . cleane. . thyne hande; socoure. . helpe; flour. . howe. . thyne. . howe. . made. . withouten; disceueraunce. . tout. . where; beset. . bonde; knyt. . se the; myne. . sicknesse. . sythe. . els say. . fayre one; myne. . begynne; _read_ ginne. . thyne. . letter. . wote. . owne; maistres. . without. . ferre. . wolde (_twice_). . sythe. . nylte; _i supply_ never; breake. . sythe; dwel. . nowe; myne sithe. . euer fynde (_om._ euer). . whose. . myne; se. . sithe; wotte; meanyng. . plures; moy. . destenie. . canne. . se. . dothe. . male. . ioye. . sithe myne. . _short line; i insert_ per cas. . _short line; i insert_ sone. for to; _i omit_ for. . lette; se where. . chefe. . my hert shuld. . best remedy. . espy. . none; _i insert_ here. . without. . holy. . leaue. . the. . your loue alone; _om._ loue. . refute. . whose; _i insert_ pitous. . tolde. . ease. . floure. . sythe; amerous. . estreynes; _i insert_ lady _to fill out the line_. . brost. . meane; porte. . say. . myght; none. . sadde. . stadde. . _i supply_ alle; gladde. . ayenst saynt. . chese (_read_ chose). * * * * * xii. ballad of good counsel. consider wel, with every circumstaunce, of what estat so-ever that thou be-- riche, strong, or mighty of puissaunce, prudent or wyse, discrete or avisee, the doom of folke in soth thou mayst nat flee; what-ever that thou do, trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. for in thy port or in thyn apparayle if thou be clad or honestly be-seyn, anon the people, of malice, wol nat fayle, without advyce or reson, for to sayn that thyn array is mad and wrought in vayn; what! suffre hem spekë!--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. thou wilt to kinges be equipolent, with gretë lordes even and peregal; and, if thou be to-torn and al to-rent, than wol they say, and jangle over-al, thou art a slogard, that never thryvë shal; yet suffre hem spekë!--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. if thou be fayr, excelling of beautee, than wol they say, that thou art amorous; if thou be foul and ugly on to see, they wol afferme that thou art vicious, the peple of langage is so dispitous; suffre hem spekë, and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. and if it fallë that thou take a wyf, [than] they wol falsly say, in hir entent, that thou art lykly ever to live in stryf, voyd of al rest, without alegëment; wyves be maistres, this is hir jugëment; yet suffre hem spekë--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. and if it so be that, of parfitnesse, thou hast avowed to live in chastitee, thán wol folk of thy persone expresse say thou art impotent t'engendre in thy degree; and thus, whether thou be chast or deslavee, suffre hem spekë--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wel alway deme amis. and if that thou be fat or corpulent, than wol they say that thou art a glotoun, a devourour, or ellës vinolent; if thou be lene or megre of fassioun, cal thee a nigard, in hir opinioun; yet suffre hem spekë--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. if thou be richë, som wol yeve thee laud, and say, it cometh of prudent governaunce; and som wol sayen, that it cometh of fraud, outher by sleight, or by fals chevisaunce; to say the worst, folk have so gret plesaunce; yet suffre hem sayë--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. if thou be sad or sobre of countenaunce, men wol say--thou thinkest som tresoun; and if [that] thou be glad of daliaunce, men wol deme it dissolucioun, and calle thy fair speche, adulacioun; yet let hem spekë--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. who that is holy by perfeccioun, men, of malyce, wol calle him ipocryte; and who is mery, of clene entencioun, men say, in ryot he doth him delyte; som mourne in blak; som laughe in clothes whyte; what! suffre them spekë--and trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. honest array, men deme, +is pompe and pryde, and who goth poore, men calle him a wastour; and who goth [mene], men marke him on every syde, and saye that he is a spye or a gylour; who wasteth, men seyn [that] he hath tresour; wherfore conclude, and trust [right] wel this, a wikked tonge wil alway deme amis. who speketh mochë, men calle him prudent; and who debateth, men say, he is hardy; and who saith litel with gret sentiment, som men yet wol edwyte him of foly; trouth is put down, and up goth flatery; and who list plainly know the cause of this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. for though a man were al-so pacient as was david, through his humilitee, or with salamon in wysdom as prudent, or in knighthode egal with josuë, or manly proved as judas machabee, yet, for al that--trust right wel this, a wicked tonge wol alway deme amis. and though a man hadde the high prowesse of worthy hector, troyes champioun, the love of troilus or the kindenesse, or of cesar the famous high renoun, with alisaundres dominacioun, yet, for al that--trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. and though a man of high or low degree of tullius hadde the sugred eloquence, or of senek the greet moralitee, or of catoun the foresight or prudence, conquest of charles, arthurs magnificence, yet, for al that--trust right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. touching of women the parfit innocence, thogh they had of hestre the mekenes, or of griseldes [the] humble pacience, or of judith the proved stablenes, or policenes virginal clennes, yit dar i say and truste right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. the wyfly trouthë of penelope, though they it hadde in hir possessioun, eleynes beautè, the kindnes of medee, the love unfeyned of marcia catoun, or of alcest the trewe affeccioun, yit dar i say and truste right wel this, a wikked tonge wol alway deme amis. than sith it is, that no man may eschewe the swerde of tonge, but it wol kerve and byte, ful hard it is, a man for to remewe out of hir daunger, so they hem delyte to hindre or slaundre, and also to bakbyte; for [this] hir study fynally it is and hir plesaunce, alwey to deme amis. most noble princes, cherisshers of vertue, remembreth you of high discrecioun, the first vertue, most plesing to jesu, (by the wryting and sentence of catoun), is a good tonge, in his opinioun; chastyse the révers, and of wysdom do this, withdraw your hering from al that deme amis. _from_ th. (thynne's edition, ); _collated with_ ff. (ms. ff. . , camb. univ. library). _another copy in_ h. (harl. ). . h. with; ff. wiht; th. _om._ . ff. h. estat; th. estate. th. _om._ that. . th. stronge. . ff. avisee; h. avice; th. besy. . th. ff. dome; h. doome. th. sothe. h. mayst; th. ff. may. th. ff. flye; h. flee. . h. that; _rest om._ ff. h. do; th. doste. th. _om._ right. . h. ff. deme; th. say. . ff. port; th. porte. th. thyne. . _all_ cladde. ff. h. or; th. and. ff. beseyn; th. be sayne. . ff. anon; th. anone (_and so in other places i correct the spelling by the_ mss.). . _all_ made. . th. h. _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. . ff. h. wylt; th. wolde. ff. h. equipolent; th. equiuolent. . ff. h. grete; th. great. . ff. to-torn; th. h. torn. . ff. h. thou; th. that thou. . th. h. _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. - . _so in_ h.; th. ff. _transpose_ ll. - _and_ - . th. fayre and; ff. h. _om._ and. h. excellyng; ff. th. excellent. . ff. h. than; th. yet. _all_ amerous. . _all_ foule. . ff. h. peple of; th. peoples. . _so_ ff.; th. h. suffre al their speche and truste (h. deme) wel this. . ff. h. deme; th. say. . ff. and yif hit falle; th. if it befal. . _insert_ than; _see_ l. . . ff. thou art euer lykkely to lyue in stryve. . ff. alleggement. . ff. h. be maistres; th. hem maystren. . _so_ ff.; th. suffren their speche; _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. . h. and if; ff. and yif; th. if. h. it; th. ff. _om._ th. that thou; ff. h. _om._ thou. . ff. h. thou hast; th. haue. . ff. h. say; th. that. th. tengendre; ff. to gendre. . ff. th. chaste. ff. dyslave (_better_ deslavee); th. delauie. . th. h. _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. . th. _om._ and. . th. h. _om._ that. . th. h. deuourer; ff. devowrer (_better_ devourour). . ff. h. lene or megre; th. megre or leane. . ff. h. her; th. h. their. . th. h. _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. . _all_ the. th. laude; ff. h. lawde. . ff. th. say; h. sayne. h. that; th. ff. _om._ . ff. outher; th. h. or. . th. what; ff. h. yit. ff. th. say. th. h. _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. . _all_ sadde. . ff. tresone; th. h. treason. . _i supply_ that. . ff. it is; th. h. _om._ is. . th. callyng; ff. h. and calle. th. _om._ thy. . th. h. _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. . ff. h. who; th. and who. . th. him an; ff. h. _om._ an. . th. who that; ff. h. _om._ that. . ff. speke; th. say. th. h. _om._ right. . ff. h. deme; th. say. - . _in_ h. _only_. . h. in; _read_ is. . h. vastour. . _i insert_ mene; _see note_. . h. wastith; _i insert_ that. . h. coclude(!); h. _om._ right. . ff. h. men calle him; th. is holden. . th. and who; ff. h. who that. th. h. say that; ff. _om._ that. . th. who that; ff. h. _om._ that. . th. men yet; ff. folke. ff. h. edwyte; th. wyte. . ff. h. vp; th. nowe. . h. who; ff. ho (= who); th. who that. ff. h. cause; th. trouth. . _so_ h. ff.; th. it is a wicked tonge th_a_t alway saythe amys. . ff. also; th. h. as. . th. _om._ his. . h. wisdom; th. wisedome; ff. wysdome. . ff. to; th. h. with. . _so_ ff. h.; th. some wycked tonge of hym wol say amys. . ff. _om._ a. _all_ had. ff. h. _om._ high. . ff. h. kyndenes; th. kyndnesse. . th. wyth al; ff. h. _om._ al. . _so_ ff.; th. some wycked tonge of hym wol say amys. . ff. h. and; th. or. . h. senek; ff. senec; th. seneca. th. great; ff. h. _om._ . ff. or prudence; th. h. and prouidence. . th. the conquest; ff. _om._ the. ff. arthurs; th. h. arturs. . _see note to_ . - . _not in_ thynne; _from_ ff. h. . h. of; ff. to. . ff. grecildes; h. gresieldis; _i supply_ the. . h. polycenes; ff. penilops. . h. wyfly; th. wyfely; ff. wylfull_e_ (!). th. h. trouth; ff. trowth; _read_ trouthe. . th. had; ff. h. hadde. th. her; ff. thaire; h. theyr. . h. eleynes; ff. eleyons; th. holynesse (_for_ heleynes). th. kyndenesse; ff. kyndnes. . ff. h. loue; th. lyfe (!). th. mertia; ff. h. marcia. th. caton; ff. h. and catou_n_. . ff. h. alcestys (_om._ the). . _so_ ff.; th. a wycked tonge wol say of her amys. . ff. suyth; h. sith; th. sythen. h. it is; ff. it; th. it is so (_om._ that). . ff. wyll (= wol); h. wil; th. _om._ . ff. h. _om._ for. . h. hir; ff. ar; th. theyr. ff. so them hem delyte; th. him for to aquyte. . ff. tho (_for_ to) hindre sclau_n_der, and also to bacbyte; th. wo to the tonges that hem so delyte. . ff. for thayre study fynaly it ys; th. to hynder or sclaunder, and set theyr study in this (cf. l. ). . th. and theyr pleasaunces to do and say amis; h. and theyr plesaunce alwey to deme amys; ff. _has (as usual)_ a wicked tonge wol alway deme amis. . ff. princesse; th. princes. . th. and most; ff. h. _om._ and. ff. plesing; th. pleasyng. . h. revers; th. reuerse; ff. reu_er_ce. h. wisdom; th. ff. wysdome. . h. voydeth (_for_ withdraw). ff. deme; th. saine. * * * * * xiii. beware of doubleness. (balade made by lydgate.) this world is ful of variaunce in every thing, who taketh hede, that faith and trust, and al constaunce, exyled ben, this is no drede; and, save only in womanhede, i can [nat] see no sikernesse; but for al that, yet, as i rede, be-war alway of doublenesse. also these fresshe somer-floures whyte and rede, blewe and grene, ben sodainly, with winter-shoures, mad feinte and fade, withoute wene; that trust is non, as ye may seen, in no-thing, nor no stedfastnesse, except in women, thus i mene; yet ay be-war of doublenesse. the croked mone, this is no tale, som whyle is shene and bright of hewe, and after that ful derk and pale, and every moneth chaungeth newe; that, who the verray sothe knewe, al thing is bilt on brotelnesse, save that these women ay be trewe; yet ay be-war of doublenesse. the lusty fresshe somers day, and phebus with his bemes clere, towardes night, they drawe away, and no lenger liste appere; that, in this present lyf now here nothing abit in his fairnesse, save women ay be founde intere and devoid of doublenesse. the see eke, with his sterne wawes, ech day floweth newe again, and, by concours of his lawes, the ebbe foloweth, in certain; after gret drought ther comth a rain, that farewel here al stabelnesse, save that women be hole and plain; yet ay be-war of doublenesse. fortunes wheel goth round aboute a thousand tymes, day and night: whos cours standeth ever in doute for to transmew; she is so light. for which adverteth in your sight th'untrust of worldly fikelnesse, save women, which of kindly right ne have no tache of doublenesse. what man may the wind restraine or holde a snake by the tail, or a sliper eel constraine that it nil voide, withouten fail; or who can dryve so a nail to make sure new-fangelnesse, save women, that can gye hir sail to rowe hir boot with doublenesse. at every haven they can aryve wher-as they wote is good passage; of innocence, they can not stryve with wawes nor no rokkes rage; so happy is hir lodemanage, with nelde and stoon hir cours to dresse, that salamon was not so sage to find in hem no doublenesse. therfor who-so hem accuse of any double entencioun, to speke, rowne, other to muse, to pinche at hir condicioun; al is but fals collusioun, i dar right wel the sothe expresse; they have no better proteccioun but shroude hem under doublenesse. so wel fortúned is hir chaunce the dys to turnen up-so-doun, with sys and sink they can avaunce, and than, by revolucioun, they sette a fel conclusioun of ambes as, in sothfastnesse; though clerkes make mencioun hir kind is fret with doublenesse. sampsoun had experience that women were ful trewe founde, whan dalida, of innocence, with sheres gan his heer to rounde; to speke also of rosamounde and cleopatras feithfulnesse, the stories plainly wil confounde men that apeche hir doublenesse. sengle thing ne is not preised, nor oo-fold is of no renoun; in balaunce whan they be peised, for lakke of weght they be bore doun; and for this cause of just resoun, these women alle, of rightwisnesse, of chois and free eleccioun most love eschaunge and doublenesse. lenvoy. o ye women, which been enclyned, by influence of your nature, to been as pure as gold y-fyned in your trouth for to endure, arm your-self in strong armure lest men assaile your sikernesse: set on your brest, your-self t'assure, a mighty sheld of doublenesse. . _from_ f. (fairfax ); _collated with_ ed. (ed. ). _also in_ a. (ashmole ), _in which it is much altered; other copies in_ ha. (harl. ), _and_ ad. (addit. ). . f. whoo. . _i supply_ nat. . f. a. these; ed. that. . f. feynt; ha. ed. feinte. . f. ed. sene. . f. a. ad. is shene; ed. ishene. . f. a. who so; ha. ad. ed. who. . ad. these; _rest om._ . ha. ad. no; f. ed. non. . f. so; _rest_ that. . f. abytte; ed. abieth; ad. abydeth. . _in the margin of_ f. ad.--per antifrasim. . f. ad. ha. foloweth; ed. _repeats_ floweth _from_ l. . a. soone affter that comthe thebbe certeyne. . f. ha. farewel al her; ed. ad. farewel here al. . f. ad. ha. haue; ed. hath. f. tachche; ed. teche. . f. slepur; ha. sleper; ed. ad. slipper. . a. nyl; ad. nil; ha. wol; f. wil; ed. will. . a. dryve so depe a. . ed. suere. , . ad. hir; ha. f. her; ed. their. . f. happe; ha. ed. happy. f. her (= hir); ed. their. . f. nelde; ed. ha. nedle. f. ha. her; ed. their. . f. ha. hem; ed. them. . f. wherfor; ed. ha. ad. therefore. mss. hem; ed. them. . ed. rowme (!). . f. hyr; ad. hir; ha. her; ed. their. . a. ad. nys (_for_ is). . ed. better; f. bette; ha. ad. bet. . mss. hem; ed. them. . ad. ed. their. . f. ed. turne; ad. ha. turnen. . f. ambes ase; ad. ha. aumbes as; ed. lombes, as (!) . f. weren; ed. a. were. mss. founde; ed. ifound. . a. heres; ad. here; ed. heere; f. hede. . f. ad. ed. the; a. hir. . mss. hir, her; ed. their. . f. oo folde; a. oone folde; ed. ofolde. . f. a. ad. weght; ha. wight; ed. waighte. a. borne. . a. ad. haue stuffed hem with doublenesse. . a. that (_for_ which). . a. in alle youre touches for. ad. trouthe for tendure. . _for_ arm _read_ armeth? . ha. assaye. . f. a. ad. tassure; ed. ha. to assure. . f. ed. shelde; a. sheelde. * * * * * xiv. a balade: warning men to beware of deceitful women. loke wel aboute, ye that lovers be; lat nat your lustes lede you to dotage; be nat enamoured on al thing that ye see. sampson the fort, and salamon the sage deceived were, for al hir gret corage; men deme hit is right as they see at y; bewar therfore; the blinde et many a fly. i mene, in women, for al hir cheres queinte, trust nat to moche; hir trouthë is but geson; the fairest outward ful wel can they peinte, hir stedfastnes endureth but a seson; for they feyn frendlines and worchen treson. and for they be chaungeáble naturally, bewar therfore; the blinde et many a fly. though al the world do his besy cure to make women stonde in stablenes, hit may nat be, hit is agayn nature; the world is do whan they lak doublenes; for they can laughe and love nat; this is expres. to trust in hem, hit is but fantasy; bewar therfore; the blind et many a fly. what wight on-lyve trusteth in hir cheres shal haue at last his guerdon and his mede; they can shave nerer then rasóurs or sheres; al is nat gold that shyneth! men, take hede; hir galle is hid under a sugred wede. hit is ful hard hir fantasy t'aspy; bewar therfore; the blinde et many a fly. women, of kinde, have condicions three; the first is, that they be fulle of deceit; to spinne also hit is hir propertee; and women have a wonderful conceit, they wepen ofte, and al is but a sleight, and whan they list, the tere is in the y; bewar therfore; the blinde et many a fly. what thing than eyr is lighter and meveable? the light, men say, that passeth in a throw; al if the light be nat so variable as is the wind that every wey [can] blow; and yet, of reson, som men deme and trow women be lightest of hir company; bewar therfore; the blind et many a fly. in short to say, though al the erth so wan were parchëmyn smothe, whyte and scribable, and the gret see, cleped the occian, were torned in inke, blakker then is sable, ech stik a penne, ech man a scriveyn able, they coud nat wryte wommannes traitory; bewar therfore; the blinde et many a fly. _from_ trin. (trin. coll. cam. r. . ), _printed in_ ed. (ed. ); t. (trin. coll. o. . ); h. (harl. ). . trin. welle. t. abowte; trin. about. . trin. leede. . trin. se. . t. h. salamon; trin. salomon. . t. her_e_ (_read_ hir); trin. h. theyr (_and elsewhere_). . _so_ t.; trin. h. hit right that they se with. t. eye; trin. ey; h. ye; (_read_ y). . t. ette, _alt. to_ ettyth; trin. h. eteth (_read_ et, _and so elsewhere_). . h. t. in; trin. of. trin. wemen; queynt. . trin. h. hem nat (t. _om._ hem). trin. trowth; geason (t. geson). . t. full_e_; trin. h. _om._ trin. peynt. . trin. feyne. . t. be; trin. ar; h. are. trin. chaungeabylle. - . _so_ t. h.; trin. _transposes_ - _and_ - . . trin. wemen stond; stabylnes. . t. h. may; trin. wolle. . trin. doubylnes. . trin. lawgh; expresse. h. _om._ nat. . h. t. in; trin. on. trin. theym. . t. yn; trin. on. trin. cherys. . t. they; trin. for wemen. . trin. shynyth. . trin. sugryd. . t. harde; trin. h. queynt. trin. to aspy. . t. _has the note_: fallere flere nere tria sunt hec in muliere. trin. thre. . t. that; trin. h. _om._ . t. hyt; trin. _om._ t. properte; trin. p_ro_purte. . h. haue; t. hath; trin. _om._ trin. conseyte. . trin. h. for they; t. _om._ for. t. wepyth (_read_ wepen); trin. wepe. t. h. but; trin. _om._ h. a sleight; t. deceyt; trin. asteyte; ed. a sleite. . trin. teere; ey. - . _in_ t. _only_. . t. passyth. . t. all yff; waryabylle. . t. wynde; ys blow (_alt. to_ blowth; _read_ can blow). . t. yut; summen. . t. ther (_for_ hir). . t. schorte; trin. sothe. trin. erthe; wanne. . trin. parchemyne; scrybabylle. . t. h. that clepyd is; trin. that callyd ys (_read_ cleped). h. _om._ the. trin. occiane. . t. yn; trin. into; h. to. t. h. is; trin. _om._ . t. h. eche; trin. euery. trin. yche; abylle. h. scryven; t. trin. scriuener. . t. they cowde not; trin. nat cowde then (!). t. wymmenys; trin. womans; h. wommans. t. treytorye; trin. h. trechery. * * * * * xv. three sayings. (a). a saying of dan john. ther beth four thinges that maketh a man a fool, hónour first putteth him in outrage, and alder-next solitarie and sool; the second is unweldy croked age; women also bring men in dotage; and mighty wyne, in many dyvers wyse, distempreth folk which [that] ben holden wyse. (b). yet of the same. ther beth four thinges causing gret folye, honour first, and [than] unweldy age; women and wyne, i dar eek specifye, make wyse men [to] fallen in dotage; wherfore, by counseil of philosophers sage, in gret honour, lerne this of me, with thyn estat have [eek] humilitee. (c). balade de bon consail. if it befalle, that god thee list visyte with any tourment or adversitee, thank first the lord; and [than], thyself to quyte, upon suffrauncë and humilitee found thou thy quarrel, what-ever that it be; mak thy defence (and thou shall have no losse) the rémembraunce of crist and of his crosse. a. _from_ stowe (ed. ). . bethe foure; foole. . soole. . distempren (!); folke whiche; _supply_ that; bene. b. _from the same._ . bene (_read_ beth, _as above_) foure. . _i supply_ than; vnwildy. . dare eke specify. . _i supply_ to. . learne. . thine estate; _i supply_ eek. c. _from the same._ . befall; the. . aduersite. . thanke; lorde; _i supply_ than; selfe. . humilite. . founde; quarel. . make. * * * * * xvi. la belle dame sans mercy. translated out of french by sir richard ros. half in a dreme, not fully wel awaked, the golden sleep me wrapped under his wing; yet nat for-thy i roos, and wel nigh naked, al sodaynly my-selve rémembring of a matér, leving al other thing which i shold do, with-outen more delay, for hem to whom i durst nat disobey. my charge was this, to translate by and by, (al thing forgive), as part of my penaunce, a book called belle dame sans mercy which mayster aleyn made of rémembraunce, cheef secretarie with the king of fraunce. and ther-upon a whyle i stood musing, and in my-self gretly imagening what wyse i shuld performe the sayd processe, considering by good avysement myn unconning and my gret simplenesse, and ayenward the strait commaundement which that i had; and thus, in myn entent, i was vexed and tourned up and doun; and yet at last, as in conclusioun, i cast my clothes on, and went my way, this foresayd charge having in rémembraunce, til i cam to a lusty green valey ful of floures, to see, a gret plesaunce; and so bolded, with their benygn suffraunce that rede this book, touching this sayd matere, thus i began, if it plese you to here. nat long ago, ryding an esy paas, i fel in thought, of joy ful desperate with greet disese and payne, so that i was of al lovers the most unfortunate, sith by his dart most cruel, ful of hate, the deeth hath take my lady and maistresse, and left me sole, thus discomfit and mate, sore languisshing, and in way of distresse. than sayd i thus, 'it falleth me to cesse eyther to ryme or ditees for to make, and i, surely, to make a ful promesse to laugh no more, but wepe in clothes blake. my joyful tyme, alas! now is it slake, for in my-self i fele no maner ese; let it be written, such fortune i take, which neither me, nor non other doth plese. if it were so, my wil or myn entent constrayned were a joyful thing to wryte, myn pen coud never have knowlege what it ment; to speke therof my tonge hath no delyte. and with my mouth if i laugh moche or lyte, myn eyen shold make a countenaunce untrewe; my hert also wold have therof despyte, the weping teres have so large issewe. these seke lovers, i leve that to hem longes, which lede their lyf in hope of alegeaunce, that is to say, to make balades and songes, every of hem, as they fele their grevaunce. for she that was my joy and my plesaunce, whos soule i pray god of his mercy save, she hath my wil, myn hertes ordinaunce, which lyeth here, within this tombe y-grave. fro this tyme forth, tyme is to hold my pees; it werieth me this mater for to trete; let other lovers put hem-self in prees; their seson is, my tyme is now forgete. fortune by strength the forcer hath unshet wherin was sperd al my worldly richesse, and al the goodes which that i have gete in my best tyme of youthe and lustinesse. love hath me kept under his governaunce; if i misdid, god graunt me forgifnesse! if i did wel, yet felte i no plesaunce; it caused neither joy nor hevinesse. for whan she dyed, that was my good maistresse, al my welfare than made the same purchas; the deeth hath set my boundes, of witnes, which for no-thing myn hert shal never pas.' in this gret thought, sore troubled in my mynde, aloon thus rood i al the morow-tyde, til at the last it happed me to fynde the place wherin i cast me to abyde whan that i had no further for to ryde. and as i went my logging to purvey, right sone i herde, but litel me besyde, in a gardeyn, wher minstrels gan to play. with that anon i went me bakker-more; my-self and i, me thought, we were y-now; but twayn that were my frendes here-before had me espyed, and yet i wot nat how. they come for me; awayward i me drow, somwhat by force, somwhat by their request, that in no wyse i coud my-self rescow, but nede i must come in, and see the feest. at my coming, the ladies everichoon bad me welcome, god wot, right gentilly, and made me chere, everich by oon and oon, a gret del better than i was worthy; and, of their grace, shewed me gret curtesy with good disport, bicause i shuld nat mourne. that day i bood stille in their company, which was to me a gracious sojourne. the bordes were spred in right litel space; the ladies sat, ech as hem semed best. were non that did servyce within that place but chosen men, right of the goodliest: and som ther were, peravénture most fresshest, that sawe their juges, sitting ful demure, without semblaunt either to most or lest, notwithstanding they had hem under cure. among al other, oon i gan espy which in gret thought ful often com and went as man that had ben ravished utterly, in his langage nat gretly diligent; his countenaunce he kept with greet tourment, but his desyr fer passed his resoun; for ever his eye went after his entent ful many a tyme, whan it was no sesoun. to make good chere, right sore him-self he payned, and outwardly he fayned greet gladnesse; to singe also by force he was constrayned for no plesaunce, but very shamfastnesse; for the complaynt of his most hevinesse com to his voice alwey without request, lyk as the sowne of birdes doth expresse whan they sing loude, in frith or in forest. other ther were, that served in the hal, but non lyk him, as after myn advyse; for he was pale, and somwhat lene with-al; his speche also trembled in fereful wyse; and ever aloon, but when he did servyse. al blak he ware, and no devyce but playn. me thought by him, as my wit coud suffyse, his hert was no-thing in his own demeyn. to feste hem al he did his diligence, and wel he couth, right as it semed me. but evermore, whan he was in presence, his chere was don; it wold non other be. his scole-maister had suche auctoritè that, al the whyle he bood stille in the place, speke coude he nat, but upon her beautè he loked stil, with right a pitous face. with that, his heed he tourned at the last for to behold the ladies everichon; but ever in oon he set his ey stedfast on her, the which his thought was most upon. and of his eyen the shot i knew anon which federed was with right humble requestes. than to my-self i sayd, 'by god aloon, suche oon was i, or that i saw these gestes.' out of the prees he went ful esely to make stable his hevy countenaunce; and, wit ye wel, he syghed tenderly for his sorowes and woful remembraunce. than in him-self he made his ordinaunce, and forth-withal com to bringe in the mes; but, for to juge his most ruful semblaunce, god wot, it was a pitous entremes! after diner, anon they hem avaunced to daunce about, these folkes everichoon; and forth-withal this hevy lover daunced somtyme with twayn, and somtyme but with oon. unto hem al his chere was after oon, now here, now there, as fel by aventure; but ever among, he drew to her aloon which he most dredde of living creature. to myn advyse, good was his purveyaunce whan he her chase to his maistresse aloon, if that her hert were set to his plesaunce as moche as was her beauteous persone. for who that ever set his trust upon the réport of the eyen, withouten more, he might be deed and graven under stoon or ever he shulde his hertes ese restore. in her fayled nothing, as i coud gesse, o wyse nor other, prevy nor apert; a garnison she was of al goodnesse to make a frounter for a lovers hert; right yong and fresshe, a woman ful covert; assured wel her port and eke her chere, wel at her ese, withouten wo or smert, al underneth the standard of daungere. to see the feest, it weried me ful sore; for hevy joy doth sore the hert travayle. out of the prees i me withdrew therfore, and set me down aloon, behynd a trayle ful of leves, to see, a greet mervayle, with grene withies y-bounden wonderly; the leves were so thik, withouten fayle, that thorough-out might no man me espy. to this lady he com ful curteisly whan he thought tyme to daunce with her a trace; sith in an herber made ful pleasauntly they rested hem, fro thens but litel space. nigh hem were none, a certayn of compace, but only they, as fer as i coud see; and save the trayle, ther i had chose my place, ther was no more betwix hem tweyne and me. i herd the lover syghing wonder sore; for ay the neer, the sorer it him sought. his inward payne he coud not kepe in store, nor for to speke, so hardy was he nought. his leche was neer, the gretter was his thought; he mused sore, to conquere his desyre; for no man may to more penaunce be brought than, in his hete, to bringe him to the fyre. the hert began to swel within his chest, so sore strayned for anguish and for payne that al to peces almost it to-brest, whan bothe at ones so sore it did constrayne; desyr was bold, but shame it gan refrayne; that oon was large, the other was ful cloos; no litel charge was layd on him, certayn, to kepe suche werre, and have so many foos. ful often-tymes to speke him-self he peyned, but shamfastnesse and drede sayd ever 'nay'; yet at the last so sore he was constrayned, whan he ful long had put it in delay, to his lady right thus than gan he say with dredful voice, weping, half in a rage:-- 'for me was purveyd an unhappy day whan i first had a sight of your visage! i suffre payne, god wot, ful hoot brenning, to cause my deeth, al for my trew servyse; and i see wel, ye rekke therof nothing, nor take no hede of it, in no kins wyse. but whan i speke after my best avyse, ye set it nought, but make ther-of a game; and though i sewe so greet an entrepryse, it peyreth not your worship nor your fame. alas! what shulde be to you prejudyce if that a man do love you faithfully to your worship, eschewing every vyce? so am i yours, and wil be verily; i chalenge nought of right, and reson why, for i am hool submit to your servyse; right as ye liste it be, right so wil i, to bynde my-self, where i was in fraunchyse! though it be so, that i can nat deserve to have your grace, but alway live in drede, yet suffre me you for to love and serve without maugrè of your most goodlihede; both faith and trouth i give your womanhede, and my servyse, withoute ayein-calling. love hath me bounde, withouten wage or mede, to be your man, and leve al other thing.' whan this lady had herd al this langage, she yaf answere ful softe and demurely, without chaunging of colour or corage, no-thing in haste, but mesurabelly:-- 'me thinketh, sir, your thought is greet foly! purpose ye not your labour for to cese? for thinketh not, whyl that ye live and i, in this matére to set your hert in pees!' _lamant._ 'ther may non make the pees, but only ye, which ar the ground and cause of al this werre; for with your eyen the letters written be, by which i am defyed and put a-fer. your plesaunt look, my verray lode-sterre, was made heraud of thilk same défyaunce which utterly behight me to forbarre my faithful trust and al myn affyaunce.' _la dame._ 'to live in wo he hath gret fantasy and of his hert also hath slipper holde, that, only for beholding of an y, can nat abyde in pees, as reson wolde! other or me if ye list to beholde, our eyen are made to loke; why shuld we spare? i take no kepe, neither of yong nor olde; who feleth smert, i counsayle him be ware!' _lam._ 'if it be so, oon hurte another sore, in his defaut that feleth the grevaunce, of very right a man may do no more; yet reson wolde it were in remembraunce. and, sith fortune not only, by her chaunce, hath caused me to suffre al this payn, but your beautè, with al the circumstaunce, why list ye have me in so greet disdayn?' _la d._ 'to your persone ne have i no disdayn, nor ever had, trewly! ne nought wil have, nor right gret love, nor hatred, in certayn; nor your counsayl to know, so god me save! if such beleve be in your mynde y-grave that litel thing may do you greet plesaunce, you to begyle, or make you for to rave, i wil nat cause no suche encomberaunce!' _lam._ 'what ever it be that me hath thus purchased, wening hath nat disceyved me, certayn, but fervent love so sore hath me y-chased that i, unware, am casten in your chayne; and sith so is, as fortune list ordayne, al my welfare is in your handes falle, in eschewing of more mischévous payn; who sonest dyeth, his care is leest of alle.' _la d._ 'this sicknesse is right esy to endure, but fewe people it causeth for to dy; but what they mene, i know it very sure, of more comfort to draw the remedy. such be there now, playning ful pitously, that fele, god wot, nat alther-grettest payne; and if so be, love hurt so grevously, lesse harm it were, oon sorowful, than twayne!' _lam._ 'alas, madame! if that it might you plese, moche better were, by way of gentilnesse, of one sory, to make twayn wel at ese, than him to stroy that liveth in distresse! for my desyr is neither more nor lesse but my servyce to do, for your plesaunce, in eschewing al maner doublenesse, to make two joyes in stede of oo grevaunce!' _la d._ 'of love i seke neither plesaunce nor ese, nor greet desyr, nor right gret affyaunce; though ye be seke, it doth me nothing plese; also, i take no hede to your plesaunce. chese who-so wil, their hertes to avaunce, free am i now, and free wil i endure; to be ruled by mannes governaunce for erthely good, nay! that i you ensure!' _lam._ 'love, which that joy and sorowe doth departe, hath set the ladies out of al servage, and largëly doth graunt hem, for their parte, lordship and rule of every maner age. the poor servaunt nought hath of avauntage but what he may get only of purchace; and he that ones to love doth his homage, ful often tyme dere bought is the rechace.' _la d._ 'ladies be nat so simple, thus i mene, so dul of wit, so sotted of foly, that, for wordes which sayd ben of the splene, in fayre langage, paynted ful plesauntly, which ye and mo holde scoles of dayly, to make hem of gret wonders to suppose; but sone they can away their hedes wrye, and to fair speche lightly their eres close.' _lam._ 'ther is no man that jangleth busily, and set his hert and al his mynd therfore, that by resoun may playne so pitously as he that hath moche hevinesse in store. whos heed is hool, and sayth that it is sore, his fayned chere is hard to kepe in mewe; but thought, which is unfayned evermore, the wordes preveth, as the workes sewe. _la d._ 'love is subtel, and hath a greet awayt, sharp in worching, in gabbing greet plesaunce, and can him venge of suche as by disceyt wold fele and knowe his secret governaunce; and maketh hem to obey his ordinaunce by chereful wayes, as in hem is supposed; but whan they fallen in-to repentaunce, than, in a rage, their counsail is disclosed.' _lam._ 'sith for-as-moche as god and eke nature hath +love avaunced to so hye degrè, moch sharper is the point, this am i sure, yet greveth more the faute, wher-ever it be. who hath no cold, of hete hath no deyntè, the toon for the tother asked is expresse; and of plesaunce knoweth non the certeyntè but it be wonne with thought and hevinesse.' _la d._ 'as for plesaunce, it is nat alway oon; that you is swete, i thinke it bitter payne. ye may nat me constrayne, nor yet right non, after your lust, to love that is but vayne. to chalenge love by right was never seyn, but herte assent, before bond and promyse; for strength nor force may not atteyne, certayn, a wil that stant enfeffed in fraunchyse!' _lam._ 'right fayr lady, god mote i never plese, if i seke other right, as in this case, but for to shewe you playnly my disese and your mercy to abyde, and eke your grace. if i purpose your honour to deface, or ever did, god and fortune me shende! and that i never rightwysly purchace oon only joy, unto my lyves ende!' _la d._ 'ye and other, that swere suche othes faste, and so condempne and cursen to and fro, ful sikerly, ye wene your othes laste no lenger than the wordes ben ago! and god, and eke his sayntes, laughe also. in such swering ther is no stedfastnesse, and these wrecches, that have ful trust therto, after, they wepe and waylen in distresse.' _lam._ 'he hath no corage of a man, trewly, that secheth plesaunce, worship to despyse; nor to be called forth is not worthy the erthe to touch the ayre in no-kins wyse. a trusty hert, a mouth without feyntyse, these ben the strength of every man of name; and who that layth his faith for litel pryse, he leseth bothe his worship and his fame.' _la d._ 'a currish herte, a mouth that is curteys, ful wel ye wot, they be not according; yet feyned chere right sone may hem apeyse where of malyce is set al their worching; ful fals semblant they bere and trew mening; their name, their fame, their tonges be but fayned; worship in hem is put in forgetting, nought repented, nor in no wyse complayned.' _lam._ 'who thinketh il, no good may him befal; god, of his grace, graunt ech man his desert! but, for his love, among your thoughtes al, as think upon my woful sorowes smert; for of my payne, wheder your tender hert of swete pitè be not therwith agreved, and if your grace to me were discovert, than, by your mene, sone shulde i be releved.' _la d._ 'a lightsom herte, a folly of plesaunce are moch better, the lesse whyl they abyde; they make you thinke, and bring you in a traunce; but that seknesse wil sone be remedyed. respite your thought, and put al this asyde; ful good disportes werieth men al-day; to help nor hurt, my wil is not aplyed; who troweth me not, i lete it passe away.' _lam._ 'who hath a brid, a faucon, or a hound, that foloweth him, for love, in every place, he cherissheth him, and kepeth him ful sound; out of his sight he wil not him enchace. and i, that set my wittes, in this cace, on you alone, withouten any chaunge, am put under, moch ferther out of grace, and lesse set by, than other that be straunge.' _la d._ 'though i make chere to every man aboute for my worship, and of myn own fraunchyse, to you i nil do so, withouten doute, in eschewing al maner prejudyse. for wit ye wel, love is so litel wyse, and in beleve so lightly wil be brought, that he taketh al at his own devyse, of thing, god wot, that serveth him of nought.' _lam._ 'if i, by love and by my trew servyse, lese the good chere that straungers have alway, wherof shuld serve my trouth in any wise lesse than to hem that come and go al-day, which holde of you nothing, that is no nay? also in you is lost, to my seming, al curtesy, which of resoun wold say that love for love were lawful deserving.' _la d._ 'curtesy is alyed wonder nere to worship, which him loveth tenderly; and he wil nat be bounde, for no prayere, nor for no gift, i say you verily, but his good chere depart ful largely where him lyketh, as his conceit wil fal; guerdon constrayned, a gift don thankfully, these twayn may not accord, ne never shal.' _lam._ 'as for guerdon, i seke non in this cace; for that desert, to me it is to hy; wherfore i ask your pardon and your grace, sith me behoveth deeth, or your mercy. to give the good where it wanteth, trewly, that were resoun and a curteys maner; and to your own moch better were worthy than to straungers, to shewe hem lovely chere.' _la d._ 'what cal ye good? fayn wolde i that i wist! that pleseth oon, another smerteth sore; but of his own to large is he that list give moche, and lese al his good fame therfore. oon shulde nat make a graunt, litel ne more, but the request were right wel according; if worship be not kept and set before, al that is left is but a litel thing.' _lam._ 'in-to this world was never formed non, nor under heven crëature y-bore, nor never shal, save only your persone, to whom your worship toucheth half so sore, but me, which have no seson, lesse ne more, of youth ne age, but still in your service; i have non eyen, no wit, nor mouth in store, but al be given to the same office.' _la d._ 'a ful gret charge hath he, withouten fayle, that his worship kepeth in sikernesse; but in daunger he setteth his travayle that feffeth it with others businesse. to him that longeth honour and noblesse, upon non other shulde nat he awayte; for of his own so moche hath he the lesse that of other moch folweth the conceyt.' _lam._ 'your eyen hath set the print which that i fele within my hert, that, where-so-ever i go, if i do thing that sowneth unto wele, nedes must it come from you, and fro no mo. fortune wil thus, that i, for wele or wo, my lyf endure, your mercy abyding; and very right wil that i thinke also of your worship, above al other thing.' _la d._ 'to your worship see wel, for that is nede, that ye spend nat your seson al in vayne; as touching myn, i rede you take no hede, by your foly to put your-self in payne. to overcome is good, and to restrayne an hert which is disceyved folily. for worse it is to breke than bowe, certayn, and better bowe than fal to sodaynly!' _lam._ 'now, fair lady, think, sith it first began that love hath set myn hert under his cure, i never might, ne truly i ne can non other serve, whyle i shal here endure; in most free wyse therof i make you sure, which may not be withdrawe; this is no nay. i must abyde al maner aventure; for i may not put to, nor take away.' _la d._ 'i holde it for no gift, in sothfastnesse, that oon offreth, where that it is forsake; for suche gift is abandoning expresse that with worship ayein may not be take. he hath an hert ful fel that list to make a gift lightly, that put is in refuse; but he is wyse that such conceyt wil slake, so that him nede never to study ne muse.' _lam._ 'he shuld nat muse, that hath his service spent on her which is a lady honourable; and if i spende my tyme to that entent, yet at the leest i am not reprevable of feyled hert; to thinke i am unable, or me mistook whan i made this request, by which love hath, of entreprise notable, so many hertes gotten by conquest.' _la d._ 'if that ye list do after my counsayl, secheth fairer, and of more higher fame, whiche in servyce of love wil you prevayl after your thought, according to the same. he hurteth both his worship and his name that folily for twayne him-self wil trouble; and he also leseth his after-game that surely can not sette his poyntes double.' _lam._ 'this your counsayl, by ought that i can see, is better sayd than don, to myn advyse; though i beleve it not, forgive it me, myn herte is suche, so hool without feyntyse, that it ne may give credence, in no wyse, to thing which is not sowning unto trouthe; other counsayl, it ar but fantasyes, save of your grace to shewe pitè and routhe.' _la d._ 'i holde him wyse that worketh folily and, whan him list, can leve and part therfro; but in conning he is to lerne, trewly, that wolde him-self conduite, and can not so. and he that wil not after counsayl do, his sute he putteth in desesperaunce; and al the good, which that shulde falle him to, is left as deed, clene out of rémembraunce.' _lam._ 'yet wil i sewe this mater faithfully whyls i may live, what-ever be my chaunce; and if it hap that in my trouthe i dy, that deeth shal not do me no displesaunce. but whan that i, by your ful hard suffraunce, shal dy so trew, and with so greet a payne, yet shal it do me moche the lesse grevaunce than for to live a fals lover, certayne.' _la d._ 'of me get ye right nought, this is no fable, i nil to you be neither hard nor strayt; and right wil not, nor maner customable, to think ye shulde be sure of my conceyt. who secheth sorowe, his be the receyt! other counsayl can i not fele nor see, nor for to lerne i cast not to awayte; who wil therto, let him assay, for me!' _lam._ 'ones must it be assayd, that is no nay, with such as be of reputacioun, and of trew love the right devoir to pay of free hertes, geten by due raunsoun; for free wil holdeth this opinioun, that it is greet duresse and discomfort to kepe a herte in so strayt a prisoun, that hath but oon body for his disport.' _la d._ 'i know so many cases mervaylous that i must nede, of resoun, think certayn, that such entree is wonder perilous, and yet wel more, the coming bak agayn. good or worship therof is seldom seyn; wherefore i wil not make no suche aray as for to fynde a plesaunce but barayn, whan it shal cost so dere, the first assay.' _lam._ 'ye have no cause to doute of this matere, nor you to meve with no such fantasyes to put me ferre al-out, as a straungere; for your goodnesse can think and wel avyse, that i have made a prefe in every wyse by which my trouth sheweth open evidence; my long abyding and my trew servyse may wel be knowen by playn experience.' _la d._ 'of very right he may be called trew, and so must he be take in every place, that can deserve, and let as he ne knew, and kepe the good, if he it may purchace. for who that prayeth or sueth in any case, right wel ye wot, in that no trouth is preved; suche hath ther ben, and are, that geten grace, and lese it sone, whan they it have acheved.' _lam._ 'if trouth me cause, by vertue soverayne, to shew good love, and alway fynd contráry, and cherish that which sleeth me with the payne, this is to me a lovely adversary! whan that pitè, which long a-slepe doth tary, hath set the fyne of al myn hevinesse, yet her comfort, to me most necessary, shuld set my wil more sure in stablenesse.' _la d._ 'the woful wight, what may he thinke or say? the contrary of al joy and gladnesse. a sick body, his thought is al away from hem that fele no sorowe nor siknesse. thus hurtes ben of dyvers businesse which love hath put to right gret hinderaunce, and trouthe also put in forgetfulnesse whan they so sore begin to sighe askaunce.' _lam._ 'now god defend but he be havëlesse of al worship or good that may befal, that to the werst tourneth, by his lewdnesse, a gift of grace, or any-thing at al that his lady vouchsauf upon him cal, or cherish him in honourable wyse! in that defaut what-ever he be that fal deserveth more than deth to suffre twyse!' _la d._ 'there is no juge y-set of such trespace by which of right oon may recovered be; oon curseth fast, another doth manace, yet dyeth non, as ferre as i can see, but kepe their cours alway, in oon degrè, and evermore their labour doth encrese to bring ladyes, by their gret soteltè, for others gilte, in sorowe and disese!' _lam._ 'al-be-it so oon do so greet offence, and be not deed, nor put to no juÿse, right wel i wot, him gayneth no defence, but he must ende in ful mischévous wyse, and al that ever is good wil him dispyse. for falshed is so ful of cursednesse that high worship shal never have enterpryse where it reigneth and hath the wilfulnesse.' _la d._ 'of that have they no greet fere now-a-days, suche as wil say, and maynteyne it ther-to, that stedfast trouthe is nothing for to prays in hem that kepe it long for wele or wo. their busy hertes passen to and fro, they be so wel reclaymed to the lure, so wel lerned hem to withholde also, and al to chaunge, whan love shuld best endure.' _lam._ 'whan oon hath set his herte in stable wyse in suche a place as is both good and trewe, he shuld not flit, but do forth his servyse alway, withouten chaunge of any newe. as sone as love beginneth to remewe, al plesaunce goth anon, in litel space; for my party, al that shal i eschewe, whyls that the soule abydeth in his place.' _la d._ 'to love trewly ther-as ye ought of right, ye may not be mistaken, doutëlesse; but ye be foul deceyved in your sight by lightly understanding, as i gesse. yet may ye wel repele your businesse and to resoun somwhat have attendaunce, moch better than to byde, by fol simplesse, the feble socour of desesperaunce.' _lam._ 'resoun, counsayl, wisdom, and good avyse ben under love arested everichoon, to which i can accorde in every wyse; for they be not rebel, but stille as stoon; their wil and myn be medled al in oon, and therwith bounden with so strong a cheyne that, as in hem, departing shal be noon, but pitè breke the mighty bond atwayne.' _la d._ 'who loveth not himself, what-ever he be in love, he stant forgete in every place; and of your wo if ye have no pitè, others pitè bileve not to purchace; but beth fully assured in this case, i am alway under oon ordinaunce, to have better; trusteth not after grace, and al that leveth tak to your plesaunce!' _lam._ 'i have my hope so sure and so stedfast that suche a lady shulde nat fail pitè; but now, alas! it is shit up so fast, that daunger sheweth on me his crueltè. and if she see the vertue fayle in me of trew servyce, then she to fayle also no wonder were; but this is the suretè, i must suffre, which way that ever it go.' _la d._ 'leve this purpos, i rede you for the best; for lenger that ye kepe it thus in vayn, the lesse ye gete, as of your hertes rest, and to rejoice it shal ye never attayn. whan ye abyde good hope, to make you fayn, ye shal be founde asotted in dotage; and in the ende, ye shal know for certayn, that hope shal pay the wrecches for their wage!' _lam._ 'ye say as falleth most for your plesaunce, and your power is greet; al this i see; but hope shal never out of my rémembraunce, by whiche i felt so greet adversitè. for whan nature hath set in you plentè of al goodnesse, by vertue and by grace, he never assembled hem, as semeth me, to put pitè out of his dwelling-place.' _la d._ 'pitè of right ought to be resonable, and to no wight of greet disavantage; there-as is nede, it shuld be profitable, and to the pitous shewing no damage. if a lady wil do so greet out-rage to shewe pitè, and cause her own debate, of such pitè cometh dispitous rage, and of the love also right deedly hate.' _lam._ 'to comforte hem that live al comfortlesse, that is no harm, but worship to your name; but ye, that bere an herte of such duresse, and a fair body formed to the same, if i durst say, ye winne al this defame by crueltè, which sitteth you ful il, but-if pitè, which may al this attame, in your high herte may rest and tary stil.' _la d._ 'what-ever he be that sayth he loveth me, and peraventure, i leve that it be so, ought he be wroth, or shulde i blamed be, though i did noght as he wolde have me do? if i medled with suche or other mo, it might be called pitè manerlesse; and, afterward if i shulde live in wo, than to repent it were to late, i gesse.' _lam._ 'o marble herte, and yet more hard, pardè, which mercy may nat perce, for no labour, more strong to bowe than is a mighty tree, what vayleth you to shewe so greet rigour? plese it you more to see me dy this hour before your eyen, for your disport and play, than for to shewe som comfort or socour to respite deth, that chaseth me alway!' _la d._ 'of your disese ye may have allegeaunce; and as for myn, i lete it over-shake. also, ye shal not dye for my plesaunce, nor for your hele i can no surety make. i nil nat hate myn hert for others sake; wepe they, laugh they, or sing, this i waraunt, for this mater so wel to undertake that non of you shal make therof avaunt!' _lam._ 'i can no skil of song; by god aloon, i have more cause to wepe in your presence; and wel i wot, avauntour am i noon, for certainly, i love better silence. oon shuld nat love by his hertes credence but he were sure to kepe it secretly; for avauntour is of no reverence whan that his tonge is his most enemy.' _la d._ 'male-bouche in courte hath greet commaundement; ech man studieth to say the worst he may. these fals lovers, in this tyme now present, they serve to boste, to jangle as a jay. the most secret wil wel that some men say how he mistrusted is on some partyes; wherfore to ladies what men speke or pray, it shuld not be bileved in no wyse.' _lam._ 'of good and il shal be, and is alway; the world is such; the erth it is not playn. they that be good, the preve sheweth every day, and otherwyse, gret villany, certayn. is it resoun, though oon his tonge distayne with cursed speche, to do him-self a shame, that such refuse shuld wrongfully remayne upon the good, renommed in their fame?' _la d._ 'suche as be nought, whan they here tydings newe, that ech trespas shal lightly have pardoun, they that purposen to be good and trewe-- wel set by noble disposicioun to continue in good condicioun-- they are the first that fallen in damage, and ful freely their hertes abandoun to litel faith, with softe and fayr langage.' _lam._ 'now knowe i wel, of very certayntè, though oon do trewly, yet shal he be shent, sith al maner of justice and pitè is banisshed out of a ladyes entent. i can nat see but al is at oo stent, the good and il, the vyce and eek vertue! suche as be good shal have the punishment for the trespas of hem that been untrewe!' _la d._ 'i have no power you to do grevaunce, nor to punisshe non other creature; but, to eschewe the more encomberaunce, to kepe us from you al, i holde it sure. fals semblaunce hath a visage ful demure, lightly to cacche the ladies in a-wayt; wherefore we must, if that we wil endure, make right good watch; lo! this is my conceyt.' _lam._ 'sith that of grace oo goodly word aloon may not be had, but alway kept in store, i pele to god, for he may here my moon, of the duresse, which greveth me so sore. and of pitè i pleyn me further-more, which he forgat, in al his ordinaunce, or els my lyf to have ended before, which he so sone put out of rémembraunce.' _la d._ 'my hert, nor i, have don you no forfeyt, by which ye shulde complayne in any kynde. there hurteth you nothing but your conceyt; be juge your-self; for so ye shal it fynde. ones for alway let this sinke in your mynde-- that ye desire shal never rejoysed be! ye noy me sore, in wasting al this wynde; for i have sayd y-nough, as semeth me.' verba auctoris. this woful man roos up in al his payne, and so parted, with weping countenaunce; his woful hert almost to-brast in twayne, ful lyke to dye, forth walking in a traunce, and sayd, 'now, deeth, com forth! thy-self avaunce, or that myn hert forgete his propertè; and make shorter al this woful penaunce of my pore lyfe, ful of adversitè!' fro thens he went, but whider wist i nought, nor to what part he drow, in sothfastnesse; but he no more was in his ladies thought, for to the daunce anon she gan her dresse. and afterward, oon tolde me thus expresse, he rente his heer, for anguissh and for payne, and in him-self took so gret hevinesse that he was deed, within a day or twayne. lenvoy. ye trew lovers, this i beseche you al, such +avantours, flee hem in every wyse, and as people defamed ye hem cal; for they, trewly, do you gret prejudyse. refus hath mad for al such flateryes his castelles strong, stuffed with ordinaunce, for they have had long tyme, by their offyce, the hool countrè of love in obeysaunce. and ye, ladyes, or what estat ye be, in whom worship hath chose his dwelling-place, for goddes love, do no such crueltè, namely, to hem that have deserved grace. nor in no wyse ne folowe not the trace of her, that here is named rightwisly, which by resoun, me semeth, in this case may be called la belle dame sans mercy. verba translatoris. go, litel book! god sende thee good passage! chese wel thy way; be simple of manere; loke thy clothing be lyke thy pilgrimage, and specially, let this be thy prayere un-to hem al that thee wil rede or here, wher thou art wrong, after their help to cal thee to correcte in any part or al. pray hem also, with thyn humble servyce, thy boldënesse to pardon in this case; for els thou art not able, in no wyse, to make thy-self appere in any place. and furthermore, beseche hem, of their grace, by their favour and supportacioun, to take in gree this rude translacioun, the which, god wot, standeth ful destitute of eloquence, of metre, and of coloures, wild as a beest, naked, without refute, upon a playne to byde al maner shoures. i can no more, but aske of hem socoures at whos request thou mad were in this wyse, commaunding me with body and servyse. right thus i make an ende of this processe, beseching him that al hath in balaunce that no trew man be vexed, causëlesse, as this man was, which is of rémembraunce; and al that doon their faythful observaunce, and in their trouth purpose hem to endure, i pray god sende hem better aventure. _explicit._ _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ); _collated with_ f. (fairfax ); and h. (harl. ). _also in_ ff. (camb. univ. lib. ff. . ). _bad spellings of_ th. _are corrected by the_ mss. title. th. h. la ... mercy; f. balade de la bele dame sanz mercy. h. _adds_--translatid ... ros. . th. f. halfe; h. half. . f. h. ff. wrapt. . _all_ rose. . th. ff. -selfe; h. f. self. . f. matere; h. matier. th. leuynge. . th. must; f. sholde; h. shold. . h. to whom; f. the which; th. whiche. th. f. dysobey; h. sey nay. . th. thynge. ff. part; _rest_ parte. . th. f. boke; h. book. th. la bel; f. la bele; h. _om._ la. h. f. sanz; th. sauns. . th. whiche. . th. secratairie; f. secretare; h. secretarie. . h. ther-; th. f. her-. th. f. stode; h. stood. . th. greatly ymagenynge. . th. shulde; f. h. sholde; ff. shuld. th. the; f. h. this. . ff. avysement; _rest_ adv. . f. h. ff. myn; th. my. f. h. ff. symplesse. . th. -warde; strayte. . th. myne. . th. downe. . th. conclusyon. . h. in-to. h. green; th. f. grene. . th. se; great. . f. h. ff. bolded; th. boldly. f. benyng; th. benygne; h. benyngne. . f. h. ff. that; th. whiche. th. f. boke; h. booke. h. f. the; th. ff. this. th. _om._ seid. . f. h. begynne. th. please. (_from this point i silently correct the spelling of_ th.) . th. ff. by; f. h. with. . ff. soleyne (_for_ sole thus); _perhaps better_. . f. h. ff. is; th. doth. . f. felde. th. maner of ease. . f. h. i; th. as i. . f. h. ff. nor doth noon other. . f. h. ff. were constreyned. . h. myn eyen; f. myn eyn; th. my penne; ff. my pen. ff. neu_er_ haue knolege; h. haue knowlege (!); th. neuer knowe; f. haue no knowlych. . f. h. ff. and; th. tho. th. _om._ if. . f. h. ff. seke; th. sicke. . th. ff. theyr; h. f. her (_often_). . f. h. balade or. . f. h. ff. lyth with hir vndir hir tumbe in graue (ff. i-graue). . th. ff. by; f. h. with. f. hath the forser vnschete. . th. sperde; ff. spred; f. sprad; h. spradde (!). . th. h. _om._ good. . th. _om._ al. h. made than. . f. ff. set; h. sette; th. shette. f. h. ff. boundes; th. bondes. . f. h. thoughtes. th. _om._ my. . f. i (_for_ it). . h. i purposid me to bide. . h. forth to. . f. h. ff. but; th. a. . f. h. gardeyn; th. garden. . f. _om._ yet i; h. _om._ yet. . f. h. come; th. came. . th. her; f. h. ff. their. . f. h. nede; th. nedes. . h. f. ff. eueryche by one and one; th. euery one by one. . _so_ ff.; h. f. were none that serued in that place (!); th. ther were no deedly seruaunts in the place. . ff. _per_aunt_er_. h. _om._ most. . th. _om._ sitting. . f. com; h. come; th. came. . h. f. man; th. one; ff. on. . th. f. ff. went; h. yode. . th. f. ff. ful; h. at. . th. _om._ good _and_ right. . f. h. come; th. came. . f. h. _om. nd_ in. . f. h. feste; th. feest. . th. coude; _rest_ couth. f. h. _om._ it. . th. h. bode. . f. eey; h. yee; th. eye. th. f. ff. stedfast; h. faste. . th. _om._ the. . f. h. and; th. for. th. ff. shot; h. sight; f. seght. . h. fedired; f. fedred; ff. federid; th. fereful. . th. i, or that; f. ther that; h. i that there. th. iestes. . f. h. tendirly; th. wonderly. . f. h. come; th. came. . f. h. _om._ most. f. h. ruful; ff. rewfull; th. woful. f. h. ff. semblaunce; th. penaunce. . f. h. these; th. the. . f. h. louer; th. man he. . th. _om._ but. . _all_ chase. . f. h. beautevous. . f. h. that; th. so. f. h. set; th. setteth. h. trist. . th. the (_rightly_); h. there; f. ff. their. . f. vndir a. . f. h. as; th. that. . f. ff. o; h. on; th. one. f. h. vice. (!). h. ner (_for st_ nor). th. ff. nor; h. or; f. ne. ff. apert; th. h. perte;f. pert. . th. garyson. th. goodlynesse. . _all_ frounter. . f. h. ff. her; th. of (_twice_). . th. standerde; f. standarte; h. standart. . th. -drawe; h. -drewh. . th. ff. alone; f. h. _om._ . f. withes; h. ff. wythyes; th. wrethes. . h. ff. thorughe; th. through; f. thorgh. th. no man might. . th. this; h. his. f. h. come; th. came. . th. set (_for_ sith). h. herbier. . h. them. th. but a. . th. of a certayne. . th. _om._ and. . _so_ f. h.; th. bytwene hem two. . th. more; h. ff. neer. . ff. hete; th. heate; f. h. hert. . th. ff. gan; f. h. can. . f. h. the toon. - . f. _omits_. . f. h. ff. kyns; th. kynde. . h. ff. avise; th. aduyse. . th. it at; f. h. _om._ at. . h. enterprise. . f. h. it; th. yet. . th. it be; f. h. _om._ it. . th. ff. eschewynge; f. h. escusyng. . f. h. to; th. vnto. . _all_ ye. th. ff. right; f. even; h. euyn. . h. _om._ that. . th. alway; f. h. ay to. . f. h. _om._ for. . th. withouten; f. without. . h. gif; f. geve. . f. h. ayein; th. any (!). . f. withouten; h. withoughtyn; th. withoute. . f. ff. mesurabely; th. h. mesurably. . th. ff. your thought is; f. h. ye do ful. . th. thynketh; f. h. think ye. th. whyles; h. whil that; ff. whils that. . f. matere; h. matier; th. mater. . f. ff. dyffiaunce. . f. h. ff. to forbarre; th. for to barre. . th. _om._ hath. th. eye; f. eeye; h. yee; (_read_ y). . f. if that ye lyst to beholde; h. ff. if ye liste to biholde; th. if ye list ye may beholde. . h. nor; th. f. ff. ne. . th. _om._ not. th. her; f. h. ff. his. . f. h. ff. but; th. by (!). . h. _om._ trewly. th. ff. nought; f. h. neuer. . f. beleue; h. bileue; th. loue (!). . _so_ ff.; h. f. _om._ greet (th. you dyspleasaunce!). . _so_ f. th.; h. encombrance. . f. i-falle; h. y-falle; ff. falle; th. fal. . th. f. ff. now; h. nought. . th. it were; f. h. _om._ it. . f. sorow; h. sorwe; th. ff. sory. . f. h. stroye; th. destroye. . f. h. oo; th. one. . th. ff. nor; f. h. ne. . f. h. grete desire nor; th. haue therin no. th. _om._ right. . f. h. seke; th. sicke. . th. of; f. h. ff. to. . f. h. their; th. her. . th. that ioy; f. h. _om._ that. . f. h. _om._ al. . f. h. their; th. her. . th. maner of age. . th. by; f. h. ff. of. th. purchesse; f. h. purchace. . th. tymes. f. _om._ the. h. dere his richesse bought has. ff. rechace; _rest_ richesse. . th. in (_for nd_ of). . f. ben; th. be; h. are. . h. scoolys holden dieuly. . f. h. of; th. al. . f. h. their hedes away. . f. set; ff. sette; th. h. setteth. . f. h. _om._ that. . th. shewe; f. sue; h. ff. sewe. . th. ff. awayte; f. h. abayte. . f. worching; h. worsching; th. workyng. . f. h. know and fele. . f. h. him; th. ff. hem. . f. h. when that; th. _om._ that. . f. h. their; th. her. . _all_ avaunced loue. . th. sharpe. f. h. this; th. thus. . f. h. it; th. ff. yet. . f. ton; h. toon; th. one. f. h. the tother; th. that other. . th. _om._ the. th. certeyne (!). . f. wonne; h. wonnen; th. one (!). f. h. with; th. in. . f. h. is; th. thi_n_ke. . f. nor; h. ner; th. and. th. _om._ certayn. . f. h. stant; th. standeth. f. enfeoffed. . th. _om._ as. . f. h. rightwysly; th. vnryghtfully (!). . th. ff. ayre; f. eir; h. heire. . th. thus be. f. h. ff. man of; th. maner. . f. layth; th. layeth; h. latith. . h. losith. . f. ff. currisch; h. kurressh; th. cursed. . th. f. right; h. ful. . f. h. their; th. her. f. worchyng; h. werchyng; th. workynge. . th. and; f. h. a. f. th. ff. semyng; h. menyng. . f. h. their; th. her (_thrice_). th. _om._ be. th. but; f. h. not. . h. sorowe. . th. wheder; ff. whedre; f. h. wher. . f. h. ff. if; th. of. . f. ff. then; h. thanne; th. that. . th. sicknesse. . th. disporte. th. me. . th. ff. nor; f. h. ne. . f. h. ff. it; th. hem. . th. ff. byrde; f. bride; h. bridde. . h. _om. nd_ him. . f. h. _om. nd_ him. . th. farther. . f. h. sett lesse. . f. h. ff. of; th. for. . f. h. of all; th. ff. _om._ of. . th. wote; f. h. wytt. - . _misarranged in_ f. h.; th. ff. _follow the right order_. . (th.) = (f. h.). f. _om. nd_ by. . f. there-of. f. h. shulde; th. shal. . th. him that cometh and goth. . th. holdeth. . th. as to; f. h. ff. _om._ as. . f. h. wolde; th. ff. wyl. . th. desyringe (!). . th. to; f. h. with. f. h. best and tendyrly; th. ff. _om._ best and. . f. h. _om._ no. f. h. ff. yift; th. gyftes. . f. wheryn hym. . f. h. ff. constreynte. . f. h. ff. may not; th. ca_n_ neuer. f. h. ne; th. ff. nor. . h. seche; f. beseche. . f. h. _om._ it. . th. a curtyse; ff. a corteys; f. h. curteysy. . th. _om._ al. . h. loste (_for_ left). . f. h. ff. neuer formed (fourmed); th. founded neuer. . th. no (_for_ non). f. eeyn; h. yeen. . h. that ne alle ar. . f. feoffeth. . th. be (_for_ he). . f. h. _om._ his. - . _follows_ _in_ f. h. (th.) = (f. h.). . th. ff. so; h. sum; f. some. . h. sowndith. . h. ff. thus; th. this. . f. _om._ ye. h. f. your sesoun spende not. . h. ff. foly; th. folly. . th. h. herte. h. f. folyly; th. follyly. . h. f. and; th. _om._ th. to fal. . h. th. faire. . h. ff. had (_for_ hath). h. f. your; th. ff. his. . f. h. i neuer; th. ff. it neuer. . f. h. whiles. . h. f. not; ff. nought; th. neyther. . th. gyfte; h. yifte. . th. _om._ that. . th. a gifte; h. f. ff. _om._ a. . h. f. _om._ an. h. hurte ful fele (!). . h. f. ff. in; th. to. . h. f. neuer; th. neyther. . h. f. who; th. ff. he. . f. _om._ the. th. reproveable. . f. h. feyled; th. fayned. . th. i mystoke; h. f. ff. me mystoke. . f. entrepris. . h. f. goten. . h. th. liste. . f. h. secheth; th. seche a. . th. preuayle. . h. hosithe (_for_ leseth). - . _follows_ _in_ f. h. . h. hoole; th. hole. . h. f. it; th. i. h. f. _om._ ne. . h. soundyng. . h. f. it ar; th. i se be. th. ff. fantasise; f. fantasyse; h. fantaisise. . h. f. ff. folily; th. no foly (!). . h. th. parte. . f. condyte. . th. ff. sute; h. f. suerte. h. f. in; th. in to. . th. _om._ which. h. f. _om._ that. . h. f. ff. left as; th. lost and. f. dethe (!). . h. ff. whils; th. whyles. th. _om._ may. . th. than; h. f. ff. that. h. not; th. f. _om._ . ff. full; _rest om._ th. h. harde. . h. triew; th. true. h. grete; th. great. f. ff. _om._ a. . f. h. _om._ the; _read_ mochel less? . h. f. nyl; th. wyl. h. th. harde. . th. no man (_for_ nor maner). . th. cast me not. . h. f. ther-to; th. therof. . h. f. beth. . h. trewe; th. true. ff. devoyr; h. duetes; f. dewtis; th. honour. . th. gotten. h. f. due; th. dewe. . h. grete; th. great. h. th. -forte. . h. f. oo; ff. on; th. one. h. th. -porte. . ff. h. cases; _rest_ causes. . h. f. which; th. ff. that. . h. f. ff. entre; th. auenture (!). . th. where i ne wyl make suche. . th. but a; h. f. _om._ a. - . _follows_ _in_ h. f. . f. matere; th. mater. . th. fantasyse; f. fantasise; h. fantesye. . f. ff. avyse; th. h. aduyse. . h. ff. prefe; f. p_re_ue; th. prise. . h. trouthe; th. truthe. . h. th. trewe. . h. th. trewe. . h. ff. deserue; th. discerne (!). h. th. knewe. . h. ff. sueth; f. seweth; th. swereth. . th. geten; h. f. getith. . h. f. ff. it haue; th. haue it. . th. h. shewe; fynde. . h. f. a slepe; th. on slepe. . th. h. comforte. . ff. shuld; h. f. shulde; th. shal. . th. sycke; h. f. seke. f. _om._ his. h. f. ff. al awaye; th. alway. . h. ff. fele; th. felen. h. sorwe; f. ff. sorowe; th. sore. . th. _om._ right. th. hindraunce. . h. ff. so; th. ful; f. _om._ . h. th. defende. h. f. haueles; th. harmlesse (!). . th. _om._ the. . th. gyfte; h. yifte. . th. ff. vouchesafe; h. vouchith sauf. . h. f. cherissh; th. ff. cherissheth. . h. th. defaute. . h. f. of; th. on. h. th. suche. . h. one; f. [=o]n; th. loue. . h. th. one. . h. th. none. . h. th. her; _see_ . th. course; h. corse. th. h. one; f. a. . h. f. euere newe; th. ff. euermore. ff. their; th. theyr; h. there; f. thair. . th. ff. their great; h. f. _om._ great. h. f. subtilite; th. subtelte; ff. sotelte. - . _follows_ _in_ f. h. . f. oone; h. on; th. one. th. dothe; great. . h. f. ff. be; th. is. h. f. ff. iuyse; th. iustyse. . _so_ h. f. ff.; th. and al euer sayd god wyl. . th. _om._ so. . ff. highe; h. f. her; th. his. h. f. shal; th. ff. may. . th. great; f. h. _om._ th. dayse; h. daies. . h. preys; th. prayse. . f. h. ff. for; th. in. . th. f. theyr; h. there. . th. one; h. on; ff. won. . h. ff. which (_for_ as). . _so_ f. h.; th. as for my partie that. . th. whyle; h. f. ff. whils that. . f. h. ye; th. it. . th. h. foule. h. f. deceyued; th. disceyued. . h. f. lightly; th. light. . h. f. this; th. ff. your. . h. ff. sumwhat haue; th. haue some. . _all_ moche. h. sonner; f. sunner; th. ff. better. th. to abide. ff. fole; _rest_ foly. th. simplenes; _rest_ simplesse. . f. ff. avyse; th. h. aduyse. . th. as a; h. f. ff. _om._ a. . h. there. th. h. one; ff. won. . th. ff. as (_rightly_); h. f. is. th. h. none. . th. h. bonde. . h. ff. who loueth; f. who love; th. ye loue. h. f. hym-; th. your-. h. f. he be; th. ye be. . _so_ h. f. ff.; th. that in loue stande. . th. bileue ye; _rest om._ ye. . h. f. beth; th. be. th. as in; _rest om._ as. . th. alway; h. f. alwaies. th. one; ff. on; h. an. . f. h. trusteth; th. trust. . th. h. take. - . _follows_ _in_ f. h. . th. lacke; h. f. ff. faile. . h. faileth. . f. h. ff. then she to; th. thoughe she do. . th. my; f. h. ff. the. h. surtee; f. seurte. . h. purpos; th. pupose. . th. for the lenger ye. h. f. ff. thus; th. is. . h. f. ff. ye; th. you. . th. _om._ that. h. ther; th. her. . th. great. . f. h. ff. felt; th. fele. th. great. . h. f. semeth; th. semed. . h. f. of; th. do no. . f. damage; h. da_m_mage; th. ff. domage. . h. f. _om._ wil. . h. dispetous. . th. suche; h. f. ff. the. . th. h. harme. h. f. ff. worship; th. co_m_forte. . h. f. ff. bere an; th. haue a. th. h. suche. . h. f. ff. _om._ and. _all_ fayre. h. f. ff. body; th. lady (!). h. formed to; f. ff. y-formed to; th. i must affirme (!). . h. f. ff. that; th. wel. . h. noght; th. not. . h. f. ff. manerles; th. mercylesse. . _here_ h. f. _agree with_ th. _again_. ff. marbre. th. h. harde. . h. f. ff. vaileth; th. auayleth. th. great. . h. f. please; th. pleaseth. th. h. dye. . th. h. dysporte. . h. f. ff. or; th. and. . th. h. dethe. h. f. that; th. whiche. . th. h. disease. . h. f. ff. shake; th. slake. . th. heale. . h. f. ff. nyl; th. wyl. h. f. ff. hate myn herte; th. hurte my selfe. . th. they i; h. f. ff. this i. . h. f. wel to: th. wyl i. . h. f. you; th. hem. . h. noo; th. nat. h. f. ff. song; th. loue. th. alone. . h. f. ff. i; th. ye. th. h. wote. th. none. . th. one; h. on. . th. h. a vauntour; _cf._ l. . . th. great. . h. f. ff. to boste; th. best. . h. wil wele; f. ff. wille wel; th. ywis. h. f. ff. that; th. yet. . h. f. on; th. in. f. th. p_ar_tyse; ff. partyes; h. party. . h. f. ff. what; th. whan so. th. say (_for_ pray). . h. f. shal; ff. schuld; th. shulde. . th. h. suche. th. ff. erth; h. f. dethe. h. f. ff. it is not; th. is not al. . h. f. preve; th. profe. . th. great villony. . f. ff. is it; th. h. it is. th. h. one. . h. f. refuse. . th. renomed; h. renommeed. f. h. her (_for_ their). . th. here; h. herde. . th. h. eche. . h. purposen; f. porposyn; th. pursuen. . _so_ h. f. ff.; th. wyl not set by none il d. . th. in euery; h. f. _om._ euery. . ff. thair; f. ther; h. theym; th. the. f. h. _om._ hertes. . th. faithe. th. ff. softe and fayre; h. faire and softe. . f. h. though; th. ff. if. _all_ one. . h. banshid. . h. f. oo; th. one. . th. the (_for st_ and); h. f. and. ff. eke; _rest_ eke the. . h. ff. shal; th. such. . h. f. ben; ff. beth; th. lyue. . f. h. ff. visage; th. face (!). . h. f. ff. the; th. these. th. h. ff. a wayte. . f. h. ff. yf that we wil; th. if we wyl here. . th. h. co_n_ceyte. . f. h. oo; th. a. th. worde. h. f. ff. allone; th. nat one. . f. h. not; th. nowe. th. kepte. . h. f. ff. pele; th. appele. _all_ mone (_read_ moon). . h. ff. pleyne me; f. pleyn me; th. complayne. . th. h. forgate. . h. elles. . ff. h. f. he so sone put; th. so sone am put. . th. h. forfeyte. . _so_ h. f. ff.; th. nothing hurteth you but your owne conceyte. . h. shal ye. . h. f. ones for; th. thus. . _so_ h. ff.; _so_ f. (_with_ the _for_ ye); th. that your desyre shal neuer recouered be. . th. ynoughe. title; _in_ h. . th. rose; h. rosse. h. f. al in; th. ff. in al. . ff. partyd; _rest_ departed. . th. to-brast; h. f. ff. it brest. . h. forth walkyng; th. ff. walkynge forth. . th. _om._ now. . th. ff. shorter; h. shorte; f. short. . h. ff. whider; th. whither. . f. party. f. ff. drow; h. drowh; th. drewe. . th. ff. thus; h. it; f. _om._ . th. great. title; _in_ th. . h. f. ff. ye; th. the. f. trew; h. trewe; th. true. th. thus; h. ff. this. . ff. aventours; _rest_ aventures (_see note_). th. flie; h. f. fle. . th. great. . th. _omits this line; from_ h. f. ff. h. f. made. h. f. ff. flaterise. . th. h. estate; ff. astate. . h. f. ff. in; th. of. . ff. haue; f. hath; h. _om._ th. _omits the line_. . h. folwe ye not; f. folowe ye not; ff. folowe not; th. foule not. _after_ , f. _has_--explicit la bele dame sanz mercy; h. f. verba translatoris. . th. h. ff. the. . h. f. _om._ al. _all_ the. . th. hir (_for_ their). . th. h. the. . th. cace; h. caas. . h. elles. , . th. her (_for_ their). . th. h. wote. . th. _om._ and. . h. f. wilde; th. ff. lyke. . ff. tabyde; th. to abyde. . h. axe. . th. ff. were made; f. was made; h. made was. . h. f. ff. processe; th. prosses. . th. h. trewe. . th. done her; ff. do thair; h. dothe here; f. doth thair. . th. her (_for_ their). _after_ ; th. explicit; h. amen. * * * * * xvii. the testament of cresseid. ane dooly sesoun to ane cairfull dyte suld correspond, and be equivalent. richt sa it wes quhen i began to wryte this tragedy; the wedder richt fervent, quhen aries, in middis of the lent, shouris of haill can fra the north discend; that scantly fra the cauld i micht defend. yit nevertheles, within myn orature i stude, quhen tytan had his bemis bricht withdrawin doun and sylit under cure; and fair venus, the bewty of the nicht, uprais, and set unto the west full richt hir goldin face, in oppositioun of god phebus direct discending doun. throwout the glas hir bemis brast sa fair that i micht see, on every syde me by, the northin wind had purifyit the air, and shed the misty cloudis fra the sky. the froist freisit, the blastis bitterly fra pole artyk come quhisling loud and shill, and causit me remuf aganis my will. for i traistit that venus, luifis quene, to quhom sum-tyme i hecht obedience, my faidit hart of luf sho wald mak grene; and therupon, with humbil reverence, i thocht to pray hir hy magnificence; but for greit cald as than i lattit was, and in my chalmer to the fyr can pas. thocht luf be hait, yit in ane man of age it kendillis nocht sa sone as in youthheid, of quhom the blude is flowing in ane rage; and in the auld the curage +douf and deid, of quhilk the fyr outward is best remeid, to help be phisik quhair that nature failit; i am expert, for baith i have assailit. i mend the fyr, and beikit me about, than tuik ane drink my spreitis to comfort, and armit me weill fra the cauld thairout. to cut the winter-nicht, and mak it short, i tuik ane quair, and left all uther sport, writtin be worthy chaucer glorious, of fair cresseid and lusty troilus. and thair i fand, efter that diomeid ressavit had that lady bricht of hew, how troilus neir out of wit abraid, and weipit soir, with visage paill of hew; for quhilk wanhope his teiris can renew, quhill +esperans rejoisit him agane: thus quhyl in joy he levit, quhyl in pane. of hir behest he had greit comforting, traisting to troy that sho suld mak retour, quhilk he desyrit maist of eirdly thing, for-quhy sho was his only paramour. bot quhen he saw passit baith day and hour of hir gaincome, than sorrow can oppres his woful hart in cair and hevines. of his distres me neidis nocht reheirs, for worthy chaucer, in the samin buik, in guidly termis and in joly veirs compylit hes his cairis, quha will luik. to brek my sleip ane uther quair i tuik, in quilk i fand the fatall desteny of fair cresseid, that endit wretchitly. quha wait gif all that chauceir wrait was trew? nor i wait nocht gif this narratioun be authoreist, or fenyeit of the new be sum poeit, throw his inventioun, maid to report the lamentatioun and woful end of this lusty cresseid, and quhat distres sho thoillit, and quhat deid. quhen diomed had all his appetyt, and mair, fulfillit of this fair lady, upon ane uther he set his haill delyt, and send to hir ane lybel of répudy, and hir excludit fra his company. than desolait sho walkit up and doun, and, sum men sayis, into the court commoun. o fair cresseid! the flour and _a-per-se_ of troy and grece, how was thou fortunait, to change in filth all thy feminitee, and be with fleshly lust sa maculait, and go amang the greikis air and lait sa giglot-lyk, takand thy foull plesance! i have pity thee suld fall sic mischance! yit nevertheles, quhat-ever men deme or say in scornful langage of thy brukilnes, i sall excuse, als far-furth as i may, thy womanheid, thy wisdom, and fairnes, the quilk fortoun hes put to sic distres as hir pleisit, and na-thing throw the gilt of thee, throw wikkit langage to be spilt. this fair lady, in this wys destitut of all comfort and consolatioun, richt prively, but fellowship, on fut disgysit passit far out of the toun ane myle or twa, unto ane mansioun beildit full gay, quhair hir father calchas, quhilk than amang the greikis dwelland was. quhan he hir saw, the caus he can inquyr of hir cuming; sho said, syching full soir, 'fra diomeid had gottin his desyr he wox wery, and wald of me no moir!' quod calchas, 'douchter, weip thow not thairfoir; peraventure all cummis for the best; welcum to me; thow art full deir ane gest.' this auld calchas, efter the law was tho, wes keeper of the tempill, as ane preist, in quhilk venus and hir son cupido war honourit; and his chalmer was thaim neist; to quhilk cresseid, with baill aneuch in breist, usit to pas, hir prayeris for to say; quhill at the last, upon ane solempne day, as custom was, the pepill far and neir, befoir the none, unto the tempill went with sacrifys devoit in thair maneir. but still cresseid, hevy in hir intent, in-to the kirk wald not hir-self present, for giving of the pepil ony deming of hir expuls fra diomeid the king: but past into ane secreit orature quhair sho micht weip hir wofull desteny. behind hir bak sho cloisit fast the dure, and on hir knëis bair fell down in hy. upon venus and cupid angerly sho cryit out, and said on this same wys, 'allas! that ever i maid yow sacrifys! ye gave me anis ane devyn responsaill that i suld be the flour of luif in troy; now am i maid an unworthy outwaill, and all in cair translatit is my joy. quha sall me gyde? quha sall me now convoy, sen i fra diomeid and nobill troilus am clene excludit, as abject odious? o fals cupide, is nane to wyte bot thow and thy mother, of luf the blind goddes! ye causit me alwayis understand and trow the seid of luf was sawin in my face, and ay grew grene throw your supply and grace. but now, allas! that seid with froist is slane, and i fra luifferis left, and all forlane!' quhen this was said, doun in ane extasy, ravishit in spreit, intill ane dream sho fell; and, be apperance, hard, quhair sho did ly, cupid the king ringand ane silver bell, quhilk men micht heir fra hevin unto hell; at quhais sound befoir cupide appeiris the sevin planetis, discending fra thair spheiris, quhilk hes powèr of all thing generábill to reull and steir, be thair greit influence, wedder and wind and coursis variábill. and first of all saturn gave his sentence, quhilk gave to cupid litill reverence, but as ane busteous churl, on his maneir, com crabbitly, with auster luik and cheir. his face fronsit, his lyr was lyk the leid his teith chatterit and cheverit with the chin his ene drowpit, how, sonkin in his heid out of his nois the meldrop fast can rin with lippis bla, and cheikis leine and thin the yse-shoklis that fra his hair doun hang was wonder greit, and as ane speir als lang. atour his belt his lyart lokkis lay felterit unfair, ourfret with froistis hoir; his garmound and his +gyte full gay of gray; his widderit weid fra him the wind out woir. ane busteous bow within his hand he boir; under his gyrdil ane flash of felloun flanis fedderit with yse, and heidit with hail-stanis. than juppiter richt fair and amiábill, god of the starnis in the firmament, and nureis to all thing[is] generábill, fra his father saturn far different, with burely face, and browis bricht and brent; upon his heid ane garland wonder gay of flouris fair, as it had been in may. his voice was cleir, as cristal wer his ene; as goldin wyr sa glitterand was his hair; his garmound and his gyte full gay of grene, with goldin listis gilt on every gair; ane burely brand about his middill bair. in his right hand he had ane groundin speir, of his father the wraith fra us to weir. nixt efter him com mars, the god of ire, of stryf, debait, and all dissensioun; to chyde and fecht, als feirs as ony fyr; in hard harnes, hewmound and habirgeoun, and on his hanche ane rousty fell fachioun: and in his hand he had ane rousty sword, wrything his face with mony angry word. shaikand his sword, befoir cupide he com with reid visage and grisly glowrand ene; and at his mouth ane bullar stude of fome, lyk to ane bair quhetting his tuskis kene richt tuilyour-lyk, but temperance in tene; ane horn he blew, with mony bosteous brag, quhilk all this warld with weir hes maid to wag. than fair phebus, lanterne and lamp of licht of man and beist, baith frute and flourishing, tender nuréis, and banisher of nicht, and of the warld causing, be his moving and influence, lyf in all eirdly thing; without comfort of quhom, of force to nocht must all ga dy, that in this warld is wrocht. as king royáll he raid upon his chair, the quhilk phaeton gydit sum-tyme unricht; the brichtnes of his face, quhen it was bair, nane micht behald for peirsing of his sicht. this goldin cart with fyry bemes bricht four yokkit steidis, full different of hew, but bait or tyring throw the spheiris drew. the first was soyr, with mane als reid as rois, callit eöy, in-to the orient; the secund steid to name hecht ethiös, quhytly and paill, and sum-deill ascendent; the thrid peros, richt hait and richt fervent; the feird was blak, callit +philegoney, quhilk rollis phebus down in-to the sey. venus was thair present, that goddes gay, hir sonnis querrel for to defend, and mak hir awin complaint, cled in ane nyce array, the ane half grene, the uther half sabill-blak; quhyte hair as gold, kemmit and shed abak; but in hir face semit greit variance, quhyles perfit treuth, and quhylës inconstance. under smyling sho was dissimulait, provocative with blenkis amorous; and suddanly changit and alterait, angry as ony serpent venemous, richt pungitive with wordis odious. thus variant sho was, quha list tak keip, with ane eye lauch, and with the uther weip:-- in taikning that all fleshly paramour, quhilk venus hes in reull and governance, is sum-tyme sweit, sum-tyme bitter and sour, richt unstabill, and full of variance, mingit with cairfull joy, and fals plesance; now hait, now cauld; now blyth, now full of wo; now grene as leif, now widderit and ago. with buik in hand than com mercurius, richt eloquent and full of rethory; with pólite termis and delicious; with pen and ink to réport all redy; setting sangis, and singand merily. his hude was reid, heklit atour his croun, lyk to ane poeit of the auld fassoun. boxis he bair with fine electuairis, and sugerit syropis for digestioun; spycis belangand to the pothecairis, with mony hailsum sweit confectioun; doctour in phisik, cled in scarlot goun, and furrit weill, as sic ane aucht to be, honest and gude, and not ane word coud le. nixt efter him com lady cynthia, the last of all, and swiftest in hir spheir, of colour blak, buskit with hornis twa, and in the nicht sho listis best appeir; haw as the leid, of colour na-thing cleir. for all hir licht sho borrowis at hir brothir titan; for of hir-self sho hes nane uther. hir gyte was gray, and full of spottis blak; and on hir breist ane churl paintit ful evin, beirand ane bunch of thornis on his bak, quhilk for his thift micht clim na nar the hevin. thus quhen they gadderit war, thir goddis sevin, mercurius they cheisit with ane assent to be foir-speikar in the parliament. quha had ben thair, and lyking for to heir his facound toung and termis exquisyte, of rhetorik the praktik he micht leir, in breif sermone ane pregnant sentence wryte. befoir cupide vailing his cap a lyte, speiris the caus of that vocacioun; and he anon shew his intencioun. 'lo!' quod cupide, 'quha will blaspheme the name of his awin god, outhir in word or deid, to all goddis he dois baith lak and shame, and suld have bitter panis to his meid. i say this by yonder wretchit cresseid, the quhilk throw me was sum-tyme flour of lufe, me and my mother starkly can reprufe. saying, of hir greit infelicitè i was the caus; and my mother venus, ane blind goddes hir cald, that micht not see, with slander and defame injurious. thus hir leving unclene and lecherous sho wald returne on me and [on] my mother, to quhom i shew my grace abone all uther. and sen ye ar all sevin deificait, participant of dévyn sapience, this greit injúry don to our hy estait me-think with pane we suld mak recompence; was never to goddis don sic violence. as weill for yow as for myself i say; thairfoir ga help to révenge, i yow pray.' mercurius to cupid gave answeir, and said, 'shir king, my counsall is that ye refer yow to the hyest planeit heir, and tak to him the lawest of degrè, the pane of cresseid for to modify; as god saturn, with him tak cynthia.' 'i am content,' quod he, 'to tak thay twa.' than thus proceidit saturn and the mone, quhen thay the mater rypely had degest; for the dispyt to cupid sho had done, and to venus oppin and manifest, in all hir lyf with pane to be opprest and torment sair, with seiknes incurábill, and to all lovers be abominábill. this dulefull sentence saturn tuik on hand, and passit doun quhair cairfull cresseid lay; and on hir heid he laid ane frosty wand, than lawfully on this wyse can he say; 'thy greit fairnes, and al thy bewty gay, thy wantoun blude, and eik thy goldin hair, heir i exclude fra thee for evermair. i change thy mirth into melancholy, quhilk is the mother of all pensivenes; thy moisture and thy heit in cald and dry; thyne insolence, thy play and wantones to greit diseis: thy pomp and thy riches in mortall neid; and greit penuritie thow suffer sall, and as ane beggar die.' o cruel saturn, fraward and angry, hard is thy dome, and to malicious! on fair cresseid quhy hes thow na mercy, quhilk was sa sweit, gentill, and amorous? withdraw thy sentence, and be gracious as thow was never; so shawis thow thy deid, ane wraikfull sentence gevin on fair cresseid. than cynthia, quhen saturn past away, out of hir sait discendit down belyve, and red ane bill on cresseid quhair sho lay, contening this sentence diffinityve:-- 'fra heil of body i thee now depryve, and to thy seiknes sal be na recure, but in dolóur thy dayis to indure. thy cristall ene minglit with blude i mak, thy voice sa cleir unplesand, hoir, and hace; thy lusty lyre ourspred with spottis blak, and lumpis haw appeirand in thy face. quhair thow cummis, ilk man sall flee the place; thus sall thou go begging fra hous to hous, with cop and clapper, lyk ane lazarous.' this dooly dream, this ugly visioun brocht to ane end, cresseid fra it awoik, and all that court and convocatioun vanischit away. than rais sho up and tuik ane poleist glas, and hir shaddow coud luik; and quhen sho saw hir face sa déformait, gif sho in hart was wa aneuch, god wait! weiping full sair, 'lo! quhat it is,' quod she, 'with fraward langage for to mufe and steir our crabbit goddis, and sa is sene on me! my blaspheming now have i bocht full deir; all eirdly joy and mirth i set areir. allas, this day! allas, this wofull tyde, quhen i began with my goddis to chyde!' be this was said, ane child com fra the hall to warn cresseid the supper was redy; first knokkit at the dure, and syne coud call-- 'madame, your father biddis you cum in hy; he has mervell sa lang on grouf ye ly, and sayis, "your prayërs been to lang sum-deill; the goddis wait all your intent full weill."' quod sho, 'fair child, ga to my father deir, and pray him cum to speik with me anon.' and sa he did, and said, 'douchter, quhat cheir?' 'allas!' quod she, 'father, my mirth is gon!' 'how sa?' quod he; and sho can all expone, as i have tauld, the vengeance and the wrak, for hir trespas, cupide on hir coud tak. he luikit on hir ugly lipper face, the quhilk befor was quhyte as lilly-flour; wringand his handis, oftymes he said, allas! that he had levit to see that wofull hour! for he knew weill that thair was na succour to hir seiknes; and that dowblit his pane; thus was thair cair aneuch betwix tham twane. quhen thay togidder murnit had full lang, quod cresseid, 'father, i wald not be kend; thairfoir in secreit wyse ye let me gang to yon hospítall at the tounis end; and thidder sum meit, for cheritie, me send to leif upon; for all mirth in this eird is fra me gane; sik is my wikkit weird.' than in ane mantill and ane bevar hat, with cop and clapper, wonder prively, he opnit ane secreit yet, and out thairat convoyit hir, that na man suld espy, unto ane village half ane myle thairby; deliverit hir in at the spittail-hous, and dayly sent hir part of his almous. sum knew hir weill, and sum had na knawlege of hir, becaus sho was sa déformait with bylis blak, ourspred in hir visage, and hir fair colour faidit and alterait. yit thay presumit, for hir hy regrait and still murning, sho was of nobill kin; with better will thairfoir they tuik hir in. the day passit, and phebus went to rest, the cloudis blak ourquhelmit all the sky; god wait gif cresseid was ane sorrowful gest, seeing that uncouth fair and herbery. but meit or drink sho dressit hir to ly in ane dark corner of the hous allone; and on this wyse, weiping, sho maid hir mone. the complaint of cresseid. 'o sop of sorrow sonken into cair! o caytive cresseid! now and ever-mair gane is thy joy and all thy mirth in eird; of all blyithnes now art thow blaiknit bair; thair is na salve may saif thee of thy sair! fell is thy fortoun, wikkit is thy weird; thy blis is baneist, and thy baill on breird! under the eirth god gif i gravin wer, quhar nane of grece nor yit of troy micht heird! quhair is thy chalmer, wantounly besene with burely bed, and bankouris browderit bene, spycis and wynis to thy collatioun; the cowpis all of gold and silver shene, the swete meitis servit in plaittis clene, with saipheron sals of ane gude sessoun; thy gay garmentis, with mony gudely goun, thy plesand lawn pinnit with goldin prene? all is areir thy greit royáll renoun! quhair is thy garding, with thir greissis gay and fresshe flouris, quhilk the quene floray had paintit plesandly in every pane, quhair thou was wont full merily in may to walk, and tak the dew be it was day, and heir the merle and mavis mony ane; with ladyis fair in carrolling to gane, and see the royal rinkis in thair array in garmentis gay, garnischit on every grane? thy greit triumphand fame and hy honour, quhair thou was callit of eirdly wichtis flour, all is decayit; thy weird is welterit so, thy hy estait is turnit in darknes dour! this lipper ludge tak for thy burelie bour, and for thy bed tak now ane bunch of stro. for waillit wyne and meitis thou had tho, tak mowlit breid, peirry, and syder sour; but cop and clapper, now is all ago. my cleir voice and my courtly carrolling, quhair i was wont with ladyis for to sing, is rawk as ruik, full hiddeous, hoir, and hace; my plesand port all utheris precelling, of lustines i was held maist conding; now is deformit the figour of my face; to luik on it na leid now lyking hes. sowpit in syte, i say with sair siching-- lugeit amang the lipper-leid--"alas!" o ladyis fair of troy and grece, attend my misery, quhilk nane may comprehend, my frivoll fortoun, my infelicitie, my greit mischief, quhilk na man can amend. be war in tyme, approchis neir the end, and in your mynd ane mirrour mak of me. as i am now, peradventure that ye, for all your micht, may cum to that same end, or ellis war, gif ony war may be. nocht is your fairnes bot ane faiding flour, nocht is your famous laud and hy honour bot wind inflat in uther mennis eiris; your roising reid to rotting sall retour. exempill mak of me in your memour, quhilk of sic thingis wofull witnes beiris. all welth in eird away as wind it weiris; be war thairfoir; approchis neir the hour; fortoun is fikkil, quhen sho beginnis and steiris.'-- thus chydand with her drery desteny, weiping, sho woik the nicht fra end to end, but all in vane; hir dule, hir cairfull cry micht nocht remeid, nor yit hir murning mend. ane lipper-lady rais, and till hir wend, and said, 'quhy spurnis thou aganis the wall, to sla thyself, and mend na-thing at all? sen that thy weiping dowbillis bot thy wo, i counsall thee mak vertew of ane neid, to leir to clap thy clapper to and fro, and +live efter the law of lipper-leid.' thair was na buit, bot forth with thame sho yeid fra place to place, quhill cauld and hounger sair compellit hir to be ane rank beggair. that samin tyme, of troy the garnisoun, quhilk had to chiftane worthy troilus, throw jeopardy of weir had strikkin doun knichtis of grece in number mervellous. with greit triúmph and laud victorious agane to troy richt royally thay raid the way quhair cresseid with the lipper baid. seing that company cum, all with ane stevin they gaif ane cry, and shuik coppis gude speid; said, 'worthy lordis, for goddis lufe of hevin, to us lipper part of your almous-deid.' than to thair cry nobill troilus tuik heid; having pity, neir by the place can pas quhair cresseid sat, nat witting quhat sho was. than upon him sho kest up baith her ene, and with ane blenk it com in-to his thocht that he sum-tyme hir face befoir had sene; but sho was in sic ply he knew hir nocht. yit than hir luik in-to his mind it brocht the sweit visage and amorous blenking of fair cresseid, sumtyme his awin darling. na wonder was, suppois in mynd that he tuik hir figure sa sone, and lo! now, quhy; the idole of ane thing in cace may be sa deip imprentit in the fantasy, that it deludis the wittis outwardly, and sa appeiris in forme and lyke estait within the mynd as it was figurait. ane spark of lufe than till his hart coud spring, and kendlit all his body in ane fyre; with hait fevir ane sweit and trimbilling him tuik, quhill he was redy to expyre; to beir his sheild his breist began to tyre; within ane whyle he changit mony hew, and nevertheles not ane ane-uther knew. for knichtly pity and memoriall of fair cresseid, ane girdill can he tak, ane purs of gold and mony gay jowáll, and in the skirt of cresseid doun can swak; than raid away, and not ane word he spak, pensive in hart, quhill he com to the toun, and for greit cair oft-syis almaist fell doun. the lipper-folk to cresseid than can draw, to see the equall distribucioun of the almous; but quhan the gold they saw, ilk ane to uther prevely can roun, and said, 'yon lord hes mair affectioun, however it be, unto yon lazarous than to us all; we knaw be his almous.' 'quhat lord is yon?' quod sho, 'have ye na feill, hes don to us so greit humanitie?' 'yes,' quod a lipper-man, 'i knaw him weill; shir troilus it is, gentill and free.' quhen cresseid understude that it was he, stiffer than steill thair stert ane bitter stound throwout hir hart, and fell doun to the ground. quhen sho, ourcom with syching sair and sad, with mony cairfull cry and cald--'ochane! now is my breist with stormy stoundis stad, wrappit in wo, ane wretch full will of wane'; than swounit sho oft or sho coud refrane, and ever in hir swouning cryit sho thus: 'o fals cresseid, and trew knicht troilus! thy luf, thy lawtee, and thy gentilnes i countit small in my prosperitie; sa elevait i was in wantones, and clam upon the fickill quheill sa hie; all faith and lufe, i promissit to thee, was in the self fickill and frivolous; o fals cresseid, and trew knicht troilus! for lufe of me thou keipt gude countinence, honest and chaist in conversatioun; of all wemen protectour and defence thou was, and helpit thair opinioun. my mynd, in fleshly foull affectioun, was inclynit to lustis lecherous; fy! fals cresseid! o, trew knicht troilus! lovers, be war, and tak gude heid about quhom that ye lufe, for quhom ye suffer paine; i lat yow wit, thair is richt few thairout quhom ye may traist, to have trew lufe againe; preif quhen ye will, your labour is in vaine. thairfoir i reid ye tak thame as ye find; for they ar sad as widdercock in wind. becaus i knaw the greit unstabilnes brukkil as glas, into my-self i say, traisting in uther als greit unfaithfulnes, als unconstant, and als untrew of fay. thocht sum be trew, i wait richt few ar thay. quha findis treuth, lat him his lady ruse; nane but my-self, as now, i will accuse.' quhen this was said, with paper sho sat doun, and on this maneir maid hir testament:-- 'heir i beteich my corps and carioun with wormis and with taidis to be rent; my cop and clapper, and myne ornament, and all my gold, the lipper-folk sall have, quhen i am deid, to bury me in grave. this royall ring, set with this ruby reid, quhilk troilus in drowry to me send, to him agane i leif it quhan i am deid, to mak my cairfull deid unto him kend. thus i conclude shortly, and mak ane end. my spreit i leif to diane, quhair sho dwellis, to walk with hir in waist woddis and wellis. o diomeid! thow hes baith broche and belt quhilk troilus gave me in takinning of his trew lufe!'--and with that word sho swelt. and sone ane lipper-man tuik of the ring, syne buryit hir withoutin tarying. to troilus furthwith the ring he bair, and of cresseid the deith he can declair. quhen he had hard hir greit infirmitè, hir legacy and lamentatioun, and how sho endit in sik povertè, he swelt for wo, and fell doun in ane swoun; for greit sorrow his hart to birst was boun. syching full sadly, said, 'i can no moir; sho was untrew, and wo is me thairfoir!' sum said, he maid ane tomb of merbell gray, and wrait hir name and superscriptioun, and laid it on hir grave, quhair that sho lay, in goldin letteris, conteining this ressoun:-- 'lo! fair ladyis, cresseid of troyis toun, sumtyme countit the flour of womanheid, under this stane, late lipper, lyis deid!' now, worthy wemen, in this ballet short, made for your worship and instructioun, of cheritè i monish and exhort, ming not your luf with fals deceptioun. beir in your mynd this short conclusioun of fair cresseid, as i have said befoir; sen sho is deid, i speik of hir no moir. _from_ e. (edinburgh edition, ); _collated with_ th. (thynne, ed. ). . e. ane; th. a (_often_). e. doolie; th. doly. e. to; th. tyl. . e. tragedie (_i substitute_ -y _for_ -ie). . e. schouris (_i substitute_ sh- _for_ sch-). . th. my[gh]t me defende. . e. oratur; th. orature. . th. scyled. . _both_ se. . th. northern. . th. shedde his. . th. frost. . e. artick; th. artike. th. whiskyng. . e. remufe; th. remoue. . th. faded. . th. chambre. _both_ fyre. . e. lufe; th. loue. . e. youtheid; th. youthheed. . e. doif; th. dull; _read_ douf. . e. phisike. . e. mend; th. made. _both_ fyre. th. beaked. . e. ane; th. i. . th. queare. . e. worthy; th. lusty. . th. founde. . th. of his wytte abrede. . th. wepte. . th. esperous; e. esperus. . e. quhyle. th. and while (_for nd_ quhyl). . e. suld; th. wolde. . th. of al erthly. . e. ganecome; th. gayncome. th. in (_for_ than). . th. in that same. . th. which ended. . th. authorysed or forged. . th. of some; by (_for_ throw). . th. she was in or she deyde. . _both_ appetyte. . th. sette was al his delyte. . th. _om._ of. . th. as (_for_ and); in the courte as co_m_mune. . th. creseyde. _both_ floure. . th. were. . e. feminitie. . th. early (_for_ air). . th. the; e. thow. . e. scornefull. e. brukkilnes; th. brutelnesse. . e. wisdome. . e. wickit. . e. in; th. on. _both_ wyse destitute. . e. but; th. without. th. or refute; e. on fute. . e. disagysit; th. dissheuelde. th. passed out. . e. inquyre; th. enquyre. . _both_ desyre. . e. sone; th. sonne. . e. hir; th. his. th. chambre. e. thame; th. _om._ . e. aneuch in; th. enewed. . _both_ custome. . _both_ sacrifice. th. deuout. . th. churche. . e. givin; th. gyueng. e. pepill; th. people. . th. oratore. . th. closed; dore. . _both_ cupide. . th. _om._ same. _both_ wyse. . e. allace; th. alas. _both_ sacrifice. . e. devine; th. diuyne. . e. sen; th. sithe. . e. lufe; th. loue. e. the; th. that. . th. vnderstande alway. . e. lufe; th. loue. . th. souple grace. . e. allace; th. alas. th. frost. . th. louers; -layne. . th. herde. . _both_ cupide. e. ringand; th. tynkyng. . th. in-to. . th. speres. . th. course. . _both_ saturne. . _both_ cupide. . th. boystous. e. on; th. in. . _both_ come. e. crabitlie; th. crabbedly. th. austryne. . e. frosnit (_for_ fronsit); th. frounsed. e. lyre; th. lere. _both_ lyke. . th. sheuered. . th. drouped hole. . e. of; th. at. th. myldrop. . th. blo. . e. ic-eschoklis; th. yse-yckels. . e. atouir; th. attour. . e. ovirfret; th. ouerfret; _read_ ourfret. . th. garment. e. gyis; th. gate; _see_ l. . . th. wyddred; wore. . th. boustous; bor[e]. . e. gyrdill. th. a fasshe(!); flayns. . th. holstayns (!). . th. sterres. . th. norice; thinge. . _both_ saturne. . th. burly. . th. wonders. . e. bene; th. ben. . e. wyre; th. wyer. th. glyttryng. . th. garment. e. gyis; th. gyte. . th. a burly; myddle he beare. . th. wrathe. e. weir; th. bere. . e. come; th. came. . e. strife; th. stryfe. . _both_ fyre. . th. hewmo_n_de. . th. fauchoun. . th. shakyng his brande. _both_ come. . th. glowyng. . e. bullar; th. blubber. . th. boore. . e. tuilyeour; th. tulsure (!). _both_ lyke. . _both_ horne; th. _om._ he. th. boustous. . e. weir; th. warre. . th. norice. . _both_ lyfe. th. erthly. . th. _om._ all. th. that al this worlde hath. . th. a chare. . th. phiton somtyme gyded. e. upricht (!); th. unright. . th. speres. . th. sorde (_for_ soyr). . _both_ eoye. . th. ethose. . th. perose; and eke. . e. philologie; th. philologee. . e. _om._ gay. . th. _om._ for. . th. kembet. . th. while parfite. e. perfyte. . e. suddanely; th. sodaynly. . e. vennemous; th. venomous. . th. tokenyng. . e. blyith; th. blyth. . th. wyddred. . _both_ come. . e. reddie; th. redy. . e. atouir; th. attour. . _both_ lyke. . e. phisick. th. cledde in a scarlet. . e. culd lie; th. couth lye. . _both_ come. . th. spere. . th. tapere. . e. hir ( ); th. the. . e. gyse; th. gyte. . e. churle; th. chorle. . e. bunche; th. busshe. . th. theft; no ner. . th. gadred were the. . e. bene. . e. rhetorick; th. rethorike. e. prettick; th. practyke. . e. anone. e. schew; th. shewde. . e. lak; th. losse. . e. yone; th. yonder. th. wretche creseyde. . e. starklie; th. she stately. . e. -tie. . th. she called a blynde goddes and myght. . e. returne; th. retorte. e. on; th. in. _i supply nd_ on. . e. schew; th. shewde (_as in_ l. ). th. aboue. . e. devyne; th. diuyne. . e. iniurie; th. iniure. _both_ done. . e. hie; th. hye. . _both_ goddes done. . _both_ cupide. . e. modifie; th. modifye. . _both_ saturne. , , , . _both_ saturne. . _both_ cupide. e. scho; th. that she. . th. open. . _both_ lyfe. . e. abhominabill; th. abhominable. . th. doleful. . e. in; th. into. . e. and; th. and thy. . e. in; th. into. e. penuritie; th. -te. . th. shalte. th. dye. . e. malitious. . e. on; th. of. . th. sheweth through. . th. _om._ fair. . th. seate. . e. heit; th. heale. . th. endure. . th. vnplesaunt heer. . th. lere. e. ouirspred; th. ouerspred. . e. this; th. thus. . th. cuppe. _both_ lyke. . _both_ dreame. e. uglye. . th. rose she. . th. polysshed. e. culd; th. couth. . e. face; th. visage. . th. were wo, i ne wyte god wate. . th. _om._ for. e. mufe; th. moue. . e. craibit; th. crabbed. . th. erthly. . e. allace; th. alas. . e. for to; th. _om._ for. . e. come; th. came. . _both_ warne. th. creseyde. e. reddy; th. redy. . e. syne culd; th. efte couth. . e. merwel; th. marueyle. . e. prayers bene; th. bedes bethe. . _both_ chylde. . _both_ anone. . _both_ gone. . e. wraik; th. wrake. . e. culd. . e. uglye. th. lepers. . th. _om._ he. . th. ynow. e. thame; th. he_m_. . th. creseyde. . th. to yon; e. unto yone. . th. charite. . th. lyue; erthe. . th. werthe(!). . e. than; th. whan(!). th. beuer; e. bawar. . th. cuppe. . th. secrete gate. . th. conueyed. . th. there to. . e. knawledge. . e. ovirspred; th. ouerspred. . e. hie; th. hye. . th. there (_for_ thairfoir). . e. ovirquhelmit; th. ouerheled. . e. was; th. were. . th. fare. , . _perhaps read_ alane, mane. . e. cative; th. caytife. e. for now; th. _om._ for. . th. erthe. . th. blake and bare. . th. helpe (_for_ saif thee of). . th. werthe (!). . th. bale vnberd (!). . th. vnder the great god. . th. men (_for_ nane). th. herd. . th. chambre. . th. burly; bankers brouded. . th. wyne. . th. cuppes. . th. plates. . th. sauery sauce. . th. pene (!). . th. arere. . th. thy greces. . e. mawis. . th. renkes. e. array; th. ray. th. _omits_ ll. - . , . e. hie. . th. leper loge. e. burelie; th. goodly. . e. bunche; th. bonch. . e. peirrie; th. pirate. e. ceder; th. syder. . th. cuppe. . e. _om._ my. . th. _om. this line_. . th. ranke as roke, ful hidous heer. th. _om._ ll. , . . th. deformed is. . th. no pleople (_sic_) hath lykyng (!). . th. solped in syght. . e. ludgeit; th. lyeng. th. leper folke. e. allace; th. alas. . th. _omits_. . th. freyle fortune. . th. war therfore; your ende. . th. _places after_ l. . . e. that; th. the. . th. worse, if any worse. . th. rosyng. . th. memore. . th. your hour. . th. _omits_. . th. woke. . th. dole. . th. remedy ne. . th. rose. . e. sen; th. sithe. e. _om._ that. th. but doubleth. . e. to leir; th. go lerne. . e. leir; th. lerne; _read_ live. th. lepers lede. . th. warre. . _both_ tryumphe; laude. . th. rode. . e. baid; th. stode. . e. thai come; th. come; _read_ cum. . th. shoke cuppes. . th. _om._ said. . th. her (_for_ thair). . th. pyte; e. pietie. . _both_ come. . e. plye; th. plyte. . e. it; th. he. . e. awin; th. owne. . th. enprynted. . e. culd; th. couth. . e. fewir; th. feuer. th. in swette. _both_ trimbling. . e. reddie. . th. brest. . th. many a hewe. . th. pyte; e. pietie. . th. gan. . th. many a gay iewel. . e. swak; th. shake. . e. _om._ he. . e. come; th. came. . e. -syis; th. -syth. . e. can; th. couth. . _both_ se. . e. prewelie; th. priuely. . th. yon; e. yone. . th. that dothe. e. humanitie; th. -te. . th. _ins._ a knight _after_ is. . e. ovircome; th. ouerco_m_e. . th. colde atone (!). . th. brest. . th. _om._ ane; th. one (_for_ wane). . th. than fel in swoun ful ofte. e. culd; th. wolde. th. fone (!); _for_ refrane. . e. lufe; th. loue. th. laude and al thy. . th. so effated (_or_ essated). . th. promytted. . th. thy selfe; furious (!). . th. countenaunce (_om._ gude). . th. were. . e. in; th. on. . e. quhome; th. whom. e. quhome; th. whan. . th. thrughout. . th. proue. . th. brittel; unto. . th. great brutelnesse. . th. though. . th. maner. . e. beteiche; th. bequeth. th. corse. . th. toodes. . th. cuppe my. . e. the; th. these. . e. drowrie; th. dowry (!). . th. spirite. . e. takning; th. tokenyng; _read_ takinning. . e. withouttin. . e. infirmitie; th. -te. . e. povertie; th. -te. . th. _om._ greit. . th. where as she. . th. troy the toun. . e. cheritie; th. charyte. . e. lufe; th. loue. . e. schort; th. sore (!). . e. sen; th. sithe. * * * * * xviii. the cuckoo and the nightingale; or the book of cupid, god of love. the god of love, a! _benedicite!_ how mighty and how greet a lord is he! for he can make of lowe hertes hye, and of hye lowe, and lyke for to dye, and harde hertes he can maken free. and he can make, within a litel stounde of seke folk ful hole, fresshe and sounde, and of [the] hole, he can make seke; and he can binden and unbinden eke what he wol have bounden or unbounde. to telle his might my wit may not suffyse; for he may do al that he wol devyse. for he can make of wyse folk ful nyce, and [eke] in lyther folk distroyen vyce; and proude hertes he can make agryse. shortly, al that ever he wol he may; ageines him ther dar no wight sey nay. for he can gladde and greve whom him lyketh; and, who that he wol, he laugheth or he syketh; and most his might he sheweth ever in may. for every trewe gentil herte free that with him is, or thinketh for to be, ageines may now shal have som steringe other to joye, or elles to morninge, in no sesoun so greet, as thinketh me. for whan they mowe here the briddes singe, and see the floures and the leves springe, that bringeth into hertes rémembraunce a maner ese, medled with grevaunce, and lusty thoughtes fulle of greet longinge. and of that longing cometh hevinesse, and therof groweth ofte greet seknesse, and al for lak of that that they desyre; and thus in may ben hertes sette on fyre, so that they brennen forth in greet distresse. i speke this of feling, trewely; for, althogh i be old and unlusty, yet have i felt of that seknesse, in may, bothe hoot and cold, an acces every day, how sore, y-wis, ther wot no wight but i. i am so shaken with the fevers whyte, of al this may yet slepte i but a lyte; and also it naught lyketh unto me, that any herte shulde slepy be in whom that love his fyry dart wol smyte. but as i lay this other night wakinge, i thoghte how lovers had a tokeninge, and among hem it was a comune tale, that it were good to here the nightingale rather than the lewde cukkow singe. and then i thoghte, anon as it was day, i wolde go som whider to assay if that i might a nightingalë here; for yet had i non herd of al this yere, and hit was tho the thridde night of may. and than, anon as i the day espyde, no lenger wolde i in my bedde abyde, but unto a wode, that was faste by, i wente forth alone, boldely, and held my way doun by a broke-syde, til i com to a launde of whyte and grene; so fair oon had i never in[ne] been; the ground was grene, y-poudred with daisye, the floures and the gras y-lyke hye, al grene and whyte; was nothing elles sene. ther sat i doun among the faire floures; and saw the briddes trippe out of her boures ther-as they had hem rested al the night. they were so joyful of the dayes light that they +begonne of may to don hir houres! they coude that servyce al by rote; ther was many a lovely straunge note; some songe loudë, as they hadde pleyned, and some in other maner vois y-feyned, and some al out, with al the fulle throte. they proyned hem, and made[n] hem right gay, and daunseden, and lepten on the spray, and evermore two and two in-fere; right so as they had chosen hem to-yere in feverere, on seint valentynes day. and eke the river, that i sat upon, it made suche a noise, as it ron, accordaunt with the briddes armonye, me thoughte, it was the best[e] melodye that mighte been y-herd of any mon. and for delyt ther-of, i wot never how, i fel in suche a slomber and a swow, not al a-slepe, ne fully wakinge; and in that swow me thoughte i herde singe that sory brid, the lew[e]de cukkow. and that was on a tree right fast[e] by; but who was than evel apayd but i? 'now god,' quod i, 'that dyëd on the crois yeve sorow on thee, and on thy lewde vois! for litel joye have i now of thy cry.' and as i with the cukkow thus gan chyde, i herde, in the nexte bush besyde, a nightingalë so lustily singe that with her clere vois she made ringe through-out al the grene wode wyde. 'a! goode nightingale!' quod i thenne, 'a litel hast thou been to longe henne; for here hath been the lew[e]de cukkow, and songen songes rather than hast thou; i pray to god that evel fyr him brenne!' but now i wol you telle a wonder thing: as longë as i lay in that swowning, me thoughte, i wiste what the briddes ment, and what they seyde, and what was her entent, and of her speche i hadde good knowing. and than herde i the nightingale say, 'now, gode cukkow! go som-where away, and let us that can singen dwellen here; for every wight escheweth thee to here, thy songes be so elenge, in good fay!' 'what?' quod he, 'what may thee eylen now? it thinketh me, i singe as wel as thou, for my song is bothe trewe and playn; al-though i can not crakel so in vayn as thou dost in thy throte, i wot never how. and every wight may understande me; but, nightingale, so may they not do thee; for thou hast many a nyce queinte cry. i have herd thee seyn, "_ocy! ocy!_" how mighte i knowe what that shulde be?' 'a fole!' quod she, 'wost thou not what it is? whan that i say "_ocy! ocy!_" y-wis, than mene i that i wolde, wonder fayn, that alle they were shamfully y-slayn that menen aught ayeines love amis. and also i wolde alle tho were dede that thenke not in love hir lyf to lede; for who that wol the god of love not serve, i dar wel say, is worthy for to sterve; and for that skil "_ocy! ocy!_" i grede.' 'ey!' quod the cukkow, 'this is a queint lawe, that every wight shal love or be to-drawe! but i forsake al suchë companye. for myn entent is neither for to dye, ne, whyl i live, in loves yok to drawe. for lovers ben the folk that been on-lyve that most disesë han, and most unthryve, and, most enduren sorow, wo, and care; and, at the laste, failen of welfare; what nedeth hit ayeines trouth to stryve?' 'what?' quod she, 'thou art out of thy minde! how might thou in thy cherles herte finde to speke of loves servaunts in this wyse? for in this worlde is noon so good servyse to every wight that gentil is of kinde. for ther-of, trewly, cometh al goodnesse, al honóur, and [eke] al gentilnesse, worship, esë, and al hertes lust, parfit joye, and ful assured trust, jolitee, plesauncë, and freshnesse, lowliheed, and trewe companye, seemliheed, largesse, and curtesye, drede of shame for to doon amis; for he that trewly loves servaunt is were lother to be shamed than to dye. and that this is sooth, al that i seye, in that beleve i wol bothe live and deye, and cukkow, so rede i thou do, y-wis.' 'ye, than,' quod he, 'god let me never have blis if ever i to that counseyl obeye! nightingale, thou spekest wonder fayre, but, for al that, the sooth is the contrayre; for loving is, in yonge folk, but rage, and in olde folk hit is a greet dotage; who most hit useth, most he shal apeyre. for therof comth disese and hevinesse, sorowe and care, and mony a greet seknesse, dispyt, debat, [and] anger, and envye, repreef and shame, untrust and jelousye, pryde and mischeef, povértee, and woodnesse. what! loving is an office of dispayr, and oo thing is ther-in that is not fayr; for who that geteth of love a litel blis, but-if he be alway therwith, y-wis, he may ful sone of age have his heyr. and, nightingale, therfor hold thee ny; for, leve me wel, for al thy queynte cry, if thou be fer or longe fro thy make, thou shalt be as other that been forsake, and than[ne] thou shalt hoten as do i!' 'fy!' quod she, 'on thy namë and on thee! the god of love ne let thee never y-thee! for thou art wors a thousand-fold than wood. for many on is ful worthy and ful good, that had be naught, ne hadde love y-be! for love his servaunts ever-more amendeth, and from al evel taches hem defendeth, and maketh hem to brenne right as fyr in trouthë and in worshipful desyr, and, whom him liketh, joye y-nough hem sendeth.' 'thou nightingale,' he seyde, 'hold thee stille; for love hath no resoun but his wille; for ofte sithe untrewe folk he eseth, and trewe folk so bitterly displeseth that, for defaute of grace, he let hem spille. with such a lorde wol i never be; for he is blind alwey, and may not see; and whom he hit he not, or whom he fayleth; and in his court ful selden trouthe avayleth; só dyvérs and so wilfúl is he.' than took i of the nightingale kepe, she caste a sigh out of her herte depe, and seyde, 'alas! that ever i was bore! i can, for tene, say not oon word more;' and right with that she brast out for to wepe. 'alas!' quod she, 'my herte wol to-breke to heren thus this false brid to speke of love, and of his worshipful servyse; now, god of love, thou help me in som wyse that i may on this cukkow been awreke!' me thoughte than, that i sterte up anon, and to the broke i ran, and gat a stoon, and at the cukkow hertely i caste; and he, for drede, fley away ful faste; and glad was i when that he was a-goon. and evermore the cukkow, as he fley, he seyde, 'farewel! farewel, papinjay!' as though he hadde scorned, thoughte me; but ay i hunted him fro tree to tree til he was fer al out of sighte awey. and thanne com the nightingale to me, and seyde, 'frend, forsothe i thanke thee that thou hast lyked me thus to rescowe; and oon avow to love i wol avowe, that al this may i wol thy singer be.' i thanked her, and was right wel apayed; 'ye,' quod she, 'and be thou not amayed, though thou have herd the cukkow er than me. for, if i live, it shal amended be the nexte may, if i be not affrayed. and oon thing i wol rede thee also; ne leve thou not the cukkow, loves fo; for al that he hath seyd is strong lesinge.' 'nay,' quod i, 'therto shal no thing me bringe fro love; and yet he doth me mochel wo.' 'ye, use thou,' quod she, 'this medicyne; every day this may, or that thou dyne, go loke upon the fresshe dayësyë. and though thou be for wo in poynt to dye, that shal ful gretly lissen thee of thy pyne. and loke alwey that thou be good and trewe, and i wol singe oon of my songes newe, for love of thee, as loude as i may crye;' and than[ne] she began this song ful hye-- 'i shrewe al hem that been of love untrewe!' and whan she hadde songe hit to the ende, 'nów farewel,' quod she, 'for i mot wende; and god of love, that can right wel and may, as mochel joye sende thee this day as ever yet he any lover sende!' thus took the nightingale her leve of me. i pray to god, he alway with her be, and joye of love he sende her evermore; and shilde us fro the cukkow and his lore; for ther is noon so fals a brid as he. forth she fley, the gentil nightingale, to al the briddes that were in that dale, and gat hem alle into a place in-fere, and +hem besoughte that they woldë here her disese; and thus began her tale:-- 'ye witen wel, it is not fro yow hid how the cukkow and i faste have chid ever sithen it was dayes light; i pray yow alle, that ye do me right of that foule, false, unkinde brid.' than spak oo brid for alle, by oon assent, 'this mater asketh good avysement; for we ben fewe briddes here in-fere. and sooth it is, the cukkow is not here; and therefor we wol have a parlement. and therat shal the egle be our lord, and other peres that ben of record, and the cukkow shal be after sent. and ther shal be yeven the jugement, or elles we shal make som accord. and this shal be, withouten any nay, the morow of seynt valentynes day, under a maple that is fayr and grene, before the chambre-window of the quene at wodestok, upon the grene lay.' she thanked hem, and than her leve took, and fley into an hawthorn by the brook, and ther she sat, and song upon that tree, 'terme of [my] lyf, love hath with-holde me,' so loude, that i with that song awook. explicit clanvowe. _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ); _collated with_ f. (fairfax ); b. (bodley ); s. (arch. selden, b. ); t. (tanner ); _also in_ ff. (camb. univ. ff. . ). title: th. of the c. and the n.; f. b. the boke of cupide, god of loue. . th. ah; f. a; s. a. a. . th. howe; gret; lorde. . th. of his; ff. s. of hye; f. b. high hertis. . f. b. s. ff. and he; th. _om._ and. . th. folke; _om._ ful. . _i supply_ the. s. hole folke. . s. and he; _rest om._ and. th. f. b. bynde; _read_ binden. . th. t. that; f. b. ff. what; s. quhom. . th. tel; wytte. , . th. t. _transpose these lines_. . th. ff. wol; _rest_ can. . th. folke. . _i supply_ eke. th. t. _om._ in (s. _has_ in-to). f. lyther; s. lidd_er_; th. ff. lythy; t. leþi. th. folke. th. t. to distroyen; _rest om._ to. . ff. t. ageynes; s. ageynest; th. agaynst; f. b. ayenst. th. ff. t. _om._ ther. . th. glad; _rest_ glade. . th. loweth. s. _has nd_ he; _rest omit_. f. b. don hym laugh or siketh. . th. t. shedeth. . th. fre. . f. b. _om._ for. . s. ff. a[gh]eynes; f. b. ayenst; th. t. agayne. th. nowe. . f. b. other; s. outhir; th. t. ff. or. th. ioy. f. b. s. t. ellis; th. els. th. t. ff. some mournyng; _rest om._ some. . f. b. grette; ff. s. grete; th. moche. . f. then; _rest_ whan (when). th. may; t. mai; f. b. s. mow; ff. mowe. th. byrdes; s. foulis; _rest_ briddes. . th. leaues. . th. t. her (_for_ hertes). . th. t. ease; s. ess; f. b. case (!). ff. y-medled. . th. ful; ff. fulle. th. great. . th. great sicknesse. . s. all; _rest om._ th. lacke. . th. forthe; great. . s. trewely; th. trewly. . f. b. s. for althogh; th. t. if(!). th. olde. . th. t. i haue; _rest_ haue i. th. felte; sicknesse. th. ff. through; _rest_ in. . _all_ hote. th. f. b. colde. th. t. and (!); _for_ an. th. axes; f. b. acces. . th. howe; wote. . th. t. _om._ yet; (ff. _has_ ne.) th. t. slepe; ff. s. slepte; f. b. slept. . s. naught likith vnto me; th. t. ff. is not lyke to me; f. b. is vnlike for to be. . th. darte. . th. howe. . th. amonge. . th. cuckowe. . th. thought. . t. ff. whider; s. quhid_er_; f. b. whedir; th. where. . th. none herde. f. b. t. this; ff. the; th. s. that. . s. thridde; t. thridd; th. f. b. thirde. . s. than; _rest om._ th. aspyde. . ff. to; th. t. vnto; f. b. into; s. in. th. wodde; f. b. wode. . th. t. went; f. b. wente. th. forthe. th. boldely; ff. t. boldly; _rest_ priuely. . th. helde. f. b. s. my; th. ff. the; t. me the. th. downe. . f. b. come; s. cam; th. t. came (_read_ com). . _all_ in; _read_ inne. s. _has_ in y-ben. , . b. _transposes_. . f. b. gras; s. greses; th. greues; t. ff. grenes. s. ylike; f. b. al i-like; th. t. ff. lyke. . th. els. . th. sate; downe. . th. sawe; birdes. th. trippe; t. trip; s. flee; f. b. crepe. . th. t. ff. _om._ had. s. thame rested; _rest_ rested hem. . th. t. _om._ that. _all_ began; _read_ begonne. ff. to don hir; th. t. for to done. f. b. of mayes ben her houres (!); s. on mayes vss thair houres. . s. lusty (_for_ lovely). s. straunge; _rest om._ . ff. lowe. t. hade; _rest_ had. s. compleyned. . th. voice yfayned. . ff. s. all ( ); _rest om._ th. ff. t. the ful; s. full_e_; f. b. a lowde. . f. b. pruned. _all_ made; _read_ maden. . th. feuerere; t. feuir[gh]ere; _rest_ marche (!). _all_ upon; _read_ on. . s. eke; _rest om._ . th. t. with; _rest_ to. t. ff. briddes; s. birdis; th. byrdes; f. b. foules. s. t. ff. armonye; th. armony; f. b. ermonye. . th. thought. _all_ best (!). . th. myght; yherde. . _all_ delyte. s. therof; _rest om._ th. wotte; f. b. note; s. wote; t. wot. f. b. ner (_for_ never). th. howe. . th. swowe; ff. swough; s. slowe (!); b. slow (!). . f. b. s. on slepe. . th. swowe; thought. . f. b. ff. that; _rest_ the. f. b. ff. bridde; s. t. brid; th. byrde. th. cuckowe. . _all_ fast. . th. yuel apayde. . th. nowe. f. b. vpon (_for_ on). . th. the. . th. nowe. . th. cuckowe. th. t. thus gan; ff. now gan; s. gan to; f. b. gan. . th. b. busshe; ff. t. bussh; f. busshes (!); s. beugh. f. b. me beside. . th. t. ff. _om._ out. ff. the greues of the wode (_better_). . th. ah. ff. s. thenne; t. thanne; _rest_ then. . th. haste. ff. s. t. henne; _rest_ hen. . f. b. lewde; s. lewed; t. ff. loude (!). (_the line runs badly._) . f. b. _om._ hast. . th. t. _om._ that. th. yuel fyre. th. s. her; _rest_ him. th. bren; _rest_ brenne. . th. nowe; tel. . th. laye. (_the line runs badly; read_ longë _or_ swowening.) . th. thought; wyst. th. t. what; _rest_ al that. . th. sayd. . t. hade; _rest_ had. . th. _om._ and. th. t. there (_for_ than). . th. nowe good. . th. lette. . th. the. . f. b. she (_for_ he). th. the. . th. songe; playne. . th. t. and though; _rest_ al-though. th. crakel; t. crakil; s. crekill; ff. crake; f. b. breke hit (!). th. vayne. . th. doest; s. dois; _rest_ dost. th. ff. s. neuer; t. not; f. b. ner. . th. done; t. s. ff. do; f. b. _om._ th. the. . th. haste. th. t. ff. nyce queynt(e); s. queynt feyned; f. b. queint. . f. b. s. herd the; t. the herd; th. the herde. th. sayne; t. seyn; f. b. seye; s. sing. . th. howe. f. b. who myghte wete what; s. bot quho my_ch_t vnderstand quhat. . th. ah; ff. t. a; _rest_ o. th. foole; woste. th. t. ff. it; _rest_ that. . th. meane; fayne. . ff. all_e_; s. all; _rest_ al. th. t. ff. they; _rest_ tho. th. yslayne. . th. meanen. s. a[gh]eines; f. b. ayen; t. again; th. agayne. . f. b. al tho were dede; th. t. ff. that al tho had the dede. s. and al they i wold also were dede. . th. thynke; t. think; s. thinkith; ff. thenke; f. b. thenk. f. b. s. ff. her lyue in loue. . th. s. who so; _rest om._ so. th. t. ff. _place_ not _after_ wol. . th. t. f. b. ff. he is; s. _om._ he. th. ff. t. _om._ for. . th. eye; cuckowe. f. b. _insert_ ywis _before_ this. . th. t. ff. that euery wight shal loue or be to-drawe; f. b. that eyther i shal love or elles be slawe. . th. myne. f. b. neyther; s. nouthir; th. t. ff. not. . th. t. ff. ne neuer; _rest om._ neuer. th. t. on; _rest_ in. . th. s. ben; ff. t. bene; f. b. lyven (_for_ been). . th. moste (_twice_); disease. . th. moste. f. b. s. enduren; th. ff. t. endure. . _so_ f. b. (_with_ of her _for_ of); th. t. ff. and leste felen of welfare; s. and ald_er_last have felyng of welefare. . s. a[gh]eynes; th. b. ayenst; f. t. ayens. . s. quhat brid q_uo_d. th. arte. . th. t. ff. might thou; f. maist thou; b. s. maistow. th. ff. churlnesse; t. clerenes (!); f. b. cherles hert; s. cherlish hert. . th. seruauntes. . th. none. . s. honestee estate and all gentilness; th. t. f. ff. al honour and al gentylnesse; b. al honour and al gentillesse. . th. ease. . th. parfyte. f. b. ensured. . s. and eke. , . _all but the first words transposed in_ th. t. . f. b. s. and for; th. t. ff. _om._ and. th. done. . th. t. ff. _om. st_ to. . f. b. ff. _om._ this. f. b. s. al; th. t. ff. _om._ . th. t. _om._ bothe. . f. b. s. rede i; th. t. ff. i rede. th. that thou. . th. t. ff. _om._ ye. f. b. she; _rest_ he. th. t. _om._ god. . th. t. vnto; f. b. ff. s. to. f. b. thy (_for_ that). . f. b. the sothe; s. full sooth. th. t. ff. is the sothe contrayre. . f. b. s. ff. loving; th. t. loue. th. folke. . th. folke; f. b. ff. _om._ f. b. hit is; th. t. _om._ th. great. . th. moste (_twice_). f. b. he; s. it; th. t. ff. _om._ . f. mony an; b. mony a; th. t. s. ff. disease and. . th. so sorowe; _rest om._ so. th. many a gret. f. b. _om._ greet. . th. dispyte debate. _i supply_ and. . f. repreve and; b. repreff and; s. repref and; th. t. deprauyng. . th. t. b. ff. _om. st_ and. th. mischefe. s. pou_er_tee; ff. pouerte; _rest_ pouert. . th. t. ff. _om._ what. th. dispayre. . b. t. oo; s. o; f. oon; th. one. th. fayre. . th. getteth; s. get (_better_). th. blysse. . f. b. _om._ if. f. b. s. ff. therby. . th. heyre; t. eyre; s. aire; f. b. crie (!); ff. heiere. . f. b. therfor nyghtyngale. th. therefore holde the nye. . th. ff. t. s. queynt; f. b. loude. . th. t. ff. ferre. f. of (_for_ or). . th. t. s. ben; f. b. be (_read_ been). . th. ff. than; f. b. t. then (_read_ thanne); s. _om._ f. b. shalt thou. . th. the. . th. t. worse. th. folde. . th. one; ff. on; f. b. _om._ s. ar; _rest_ is. . t. hade (_twice_); _rest_ had. . th. t. ff. _put_ evermore _after_ for. th. seruauntes; f. b. seruant. . ff. t. euel; s. euell; th. yuel; f. b. _om._ f. tachches; s. stachis (!). f. b. him. . f. b. him. f. b. as eny; t. right as a; ff. right as; th. right in a. s. be brynnyng as a. th. fyre. . th. whan; t. when; ff. whanne (_for_ whom). f. b. ff. him; s. he; th. t. hem. th. ioy. . f. b. ye (_for_ thou). th. sayd. t. f. b. s. ff. hold the; th. be. th. styl. . f. b. s. ff. his; th. t. it is. th. wyl. . f. b. ff. sithe; th. t. tyme; s. tymes. th. folke; easeth. . th. folke. th. t. ff. he displeaseth; _rest om._ he. . f. b. and (_for_ that). th. corage; _rest_ grace. th. spyl. - . _from_ f. b. ff. s.; th. t. _omit_. . ff. will_e_; f. wolde; b. wull; s. wole. . f. b. blynde; s. blynd. s. alweye; f. b. ff. _om._ . ff. and whom he hit he not, or whom he failith (_best_); f. b. and whan he lyeth he not, ne whan he fayleth; s. quhom he hurtith he note, ne quhom he helith (!). . _so_ ff.; f. b. in; s. into. ff. s. his; f. b. this. f. b. selde. . f. b. dyuerse. . th. toke. . th. t. howe she; f. b. s. _om._ howe. th. t. ff. _om._ herte. . th. sayd. . th. not say one; t. nou[gh]t sey oo. . th. that worde; _rest om._ worde. f. b. on (_for_ out). th. _om._ for. . th. leude; ff. false; _rest_ fals. t. b. brid; ff. bridde; th. byrde; s. bird. f. b. ff. to; _rest om._ . th. helpe; some. . th. cuckowe ben. . s. thocht; _rest_ thought (_read_ thoughte). f. b. s. that i; t. ff. i; th. he. - . th. t. _omit_. . s. gat; f. b. gatte. . s. hardily; f. b. ff. hertly. . ff. flye[gh]; f. flyed; b. flye; s. gan flee (_read_ fley, _as in_ ). . th. _om._ when. th. agon; t. s. agone; ff. goon; f. gone; b. gon. . f. b. fley; th. flaye; ff. s. flay; t. flai. . th. t. _om._ he. th. sayd. th. popyngaye; f. b. papyngay; s. papaiay; ff. papeiay. . t. hade; _rest_ had. f. b. ff. thoght me; s. as thocht me (_read_ thoughte me); th. me alone (_to rime with_ ). , . th. t. _omit_. . f. b. ff. sight away. . th. s. than; f. b. t. then; ff. thanne. f. b. t. s. come; th. ff. came. . f. b. seyde; th. sayd. th. the. . th. haste. f. b. thus; s. for; th. t. ff. _om._ t. rescow; _rest_ rescowe. . th. one. ff. i wol avowe; f. b. i avowe; th. t. make i nowe. s. and ry_ch_t anon to loue i wole allowe. . th. apayde; t. apaied. . f. b. ff. s. amayed; th. t. dismayde. . th. herde. f. b. er; th. t. ff. erst. . ff. nexte; _rest_ next. th. affrayde; t. affraied. . th. one. . s. leue; _rest_ loue (!). th. cuckowe ne his; f. b. s. _om._ ne his. . th. stronge leasyng. . f. b. s. ff. there (_for_ therto). t. man (_for_ thing). . f. b. s. fro; th. t. ff. for (!). _so_ ff. f. b. s.; th. t. and it hath do me moche (t. myche) wo. . f. b. yee; s. ya. s. thou schalt vss. th. t. ff. _om._ thou. . ff. f. b. er; _rest_ or. th. t. ff. _om._ that. . f. b. s. fressh flour; ff. th. t. _om._ flour. s. dayeseye. . th. greatly. b. lisse; f. ff. lyssen; th. t. s. lessen. s. _om._ thee. --_end_. _lost in_ s. . th. one. ff. my; _rest_ the. . th. the. . th. t. ff. than; f. b. then (_read_ thanne). th. songe. . f. b. ff. hem al. th. ben; t. bene. . ff. hadde; t. hade; _rest_ had. . th. nowe. f. most; b. must; th. ff. mote; t. mot. . ff. mochel; f. b. mekil; t. mykil; th. moche. th. the. . _so_ f. b. ff.; th. t. as any yet louer he euer sende. . th. t. ff. taketh; f. b. toke. th. leaue. . th. t. ff. _om._ he. . th. cuckowe. . ff. noon; f. b. non; th. t. not. t. ff. brid; f. b. bridde; th. byrde. . f. b. fley; t. fleigh; ff. fle[gh]t; th. flewe. . th. byrdes; _rest_ briddes. b. the vale; f. the wale; th. t. ff. that dale. . th. t. gate; f. b. gat. . _all put_ hem _after_ besoughte. ff. bysought; _rest_ besoughten (!). . th. t. disease. . ff. ye wyten; f. b. ye knowe; th. t. the cuckowe (!). f. b. fro yow hidde; th. t. for to hyde (!). . f. b. how that; _rest om._ that. th. t. ff. fast; f. b. _om._ th. chyde; t. chide; f. b. ff. chidde. . th. ff. daye; _rest_ dayes. . th. ff. praye; _rest_ pray (prey). ff. all_e_; _rest_ al. . th. bride; t. ff. brid; f. b. bridde. . th. o; _rest_ oon. t. all; _rest_ al. th. one; t. oon; f. b. _om._ . th. _om._ fewe. th. byrdes. . _all_ soth. th. cuckowe. . t. ff. lord; _rest_ lorde. . t. ff. record; _rest_ recorde. . th. cuckowe. . ff. th. t. _om._ and. th. there. th. t. yeue; f. yeuen; b. yeuyn; ff. youe. . f. b. make summe; th. t. fynally make. . th. without; _rest_ withouten. th. t. ff. _om._ any. . f. b. of; th. t. ff. after. th. t. ff. a; f. b. the. th. fayre. . th. wyndowe. . th. wodestocke; f. b. wodestok. . f. b. thanketh. th. leaue toke. . f. b. fleye; th. t. _om._ th. t. ff. an; f. b. a. th. hauthorne; t. hauthorn. _all_ broke. . _all_ sate. t. ff. song; _rest_ songe. th. t. that; f. b. the; ff. a. . _i supply_ my. th. t. ff. lyfe; f. b. lyve. _after_ , ff. _has_ explicit clanvowe. * * * * * xix. envoy to alison. o lewde book, with thy foole rudenesse, sith thou hast neither beautee n'eloquence, who hath thee caused, or yeve thee hardinesse for to appere in my ladyes presence? i am ful siker, thou knowest her benivolence ful ágreable to alle hir obeyinge; for of al goode she is the best livinge. allas! that thou ne haddest worthinesse to shewe to her som plesaunt sentence, sith that she hath, thorough her gentilesse, accepted thee servant to her digne reverence! o, me repenteth that i n'had science and leyser als, to make thee more florisshinge; for of al goode she is the best livinge. beseche her mekely, with al lowlinesse, though i be fer from her [as] in absence, to thenke on my trouth to her and stedfastnesse, and to abregge of my sorwe the violence, which caused is wherof knoweth your sapience; she lyke among to notifye me her lykinge; for of al goode she is the best livinge. lenvoy. aurore of gladnesse, and day of lustinesse, lucerne a-night, with hevenly influence illumined, rote of beautee and goodnesse, suspiries which i effunde in silence, of grace i beseche, alegge let your wrytinge, now of al goode sith ye be best livinge. _explicit._ _from_ f. (fairfax ); _collated with_ t. (tanner ); _and_ th. (thynne, ed. ). . f. boke; t. th. booke. th. foule. . _all_ beaute. . _all_ the (_twice_). . _so all._ . th. abeyeng (!). . f. t. goode; th. good. th. best; f. t. beste. . _all_ so_m_me, some. th. plesaunt; f. plesant. . t. thurugh; f. thorgh; th. through. . _all_ the. . _all_ ne (_before_ had). . _so all_ (_with_ the _for_ thee). . th. good. th. best; f. t. beste. . _i supply_ as. . t. th. trouth; f. trouthe. . f. abregge; th. abrege; t. abrigge. t. sorow; f. sorwes; th. sorowes. . _all_ amonge. t. th. notifye; f. notefye. . t. th. al; f. alle. f. t. goode; th. good. th. lenuoye; t. the lenuoye; f. _om._ . th. t. illumyned; f. enlumyned. f. rote (_with capital_). _all_ beaute. f. and of; th. t. _om._ of. . f. suspiries; th. suspires. . t. beseke. th. alege. . f. goode; th. t. good. _after_ : th. explicit; f. t. _om._ * * * * * xx. the flower and the leaf. when that phebus his chaire of gold so hy had whirled up the sterry sky aloft, and in the bole was entred certainly; whan shoures swete of rain discended +soft, causing the ground, felë tymes and oft, up for to give many an hoolsom air, and every plain was [eek y-]clothed fair with newe grene, and maketh smalë floures to springen here and there in feld and mede; so very good and hoolsom be the shoures that it reneweth, that was old and deede in winter-tyme; and out of every seede springeth the herbë, so that every wight of this sesoun wexeth [ful] glad and light. and i, só glad of the seson swete, was happed thus upon a certain night; as i lay in my bed, sleep ful unmete was unto me; but, why that i ne might rest, i ne wist; for there nas erthly wight, as i suppose, had more hertës ese than i, for i n'ad siknesse nor disese. wherfore i mervail gretly of my-selve, that i so long withouten sleepë lay; and up i roos, three houres after twelve, about the [very] springing of the day, and on i put my gere and myn array; and to a plesaunt grovë i gan passe, long or the brightë sonne uprisen was, in which were okës grete, streight as a lyne, under the which the gras, so fresh of hew, was newly spronge; and an eight foot or nyne every tree wel fro his felawe grew, with braunches brode, laden with leves new, that sprongen out ayein the sonnë shene, som very rede, and som a glad light grene; which, as me thought, was right a plesaunt sight. and eek the briddes song[ës] for to here would have rejoised any erthly wight. and i, that couth not yet, in no manere, here the nightingale of al the yere, ful busily herkned, with herte and ere, if i her voice perceive coud any-where. and at the last, a path of litel brede i found, that gretly had not used be, for it forgrowen was with gras and weede, that wel unneth a wight [ther] might it see. thought i, this path som whider goth, pardè, and so i folowèd, til it me brought to right a plesaunt herber, wel y-wrought, that benched was, and [al] with turves new freshly turved, wherof the grenë gras so small, so thik, so short, so fresh of hew, that most lyk to grene +wol, wot i, it was. the hegge also, that yede [as] in compas and closed in al the grene herbere, with sicamour was set and eglantere, writhen in-fere so wel and cunningly that every braunch and leef grew by mesure, plain as a bord, of on height, by and by, [that] i sy never thing, i you ensure, so wel [y-]don; for he that took the cure it [for] to make, i trow, did al his peyn to make it passe al tho that men have seyn. and shapen was this herber, roof and al, as [is] a prety parlour, and also the hegge as thik as [is] a castle-wal, that, who that list without to stond or go, though he wold al-day pryen to and fro, he shuld not see if there were any wight within or no; but oon within wel might perceive al tho that yeden there-without in the feld, that was on every syde covered with corn and gras, that, out of dout, though oon wold seeken al the world wyde, so rich a feld [ne] coud not be espyed [up]on no cost, as of the quantitee, for of al good thing ther was [greet] plentee. and i, that al this plesaunt sight [than] sy, thought sodainly i felt so sweet an air [come] of the eglantere, that certainly, ther is no hert, i deme, in such despair, ne with [no] thoughtës froward and contrair so overlaid, but it shuld soone have bote, if it had onës felt this savour sote. and as i stood and cast asyde myn y, i was ware of the fairest medle-tree that ever yet in al my lyf i sy, as full of blossomës as it might be. therin a goldfinch leping pretily fro bough to bough, and, as him list, he eet here and there, of buddes and floures sweet. and to the herber-sydë was joining this fairë tree, of which i have you told; and, at the last, the brid began to sing, whan he had eten what he etë wold, so passing sweetly, that, by manifold, it was more plesaunt than i coud devyse; and whan his song was ended in this wyse, the nightingale with so mery a note answéred him, that al the wodë rong so sodainly, that, as it were a sot, i stood astonied; so was i with the song through ravishèd, that, [un]til late and long ne wist i in what place i was, ne where; and +ay, me thought, she song even by myn ere. wherfore about i waited busily on every syde, if i her mightë see; and, at the last, i gan ful wel aspy wher she sat in a fresh green laurer-tree on the further syde, even right by me, that gave so passing a delicious smel according to the eglantere ful wel. wherof i had so inly greet plesyr that, as me thought, i surely ravished was into paradyse, where my desyr was for to be, and no ferther [to] passe as for that day, and on the sotë gras i sat me doun; for, as for myn entent, the birdës song was more convenient, and more plesaunt to me, by many fold, than mete or drink, or any other thing; thereto the herber was so fresh and cold, the hoolsom savours eek so comforting that, as i demed, sith the beginning of the world, was never seen, or than, so plesaunt a ground of non erthly man. and as i sat, the briddës herkning thus, me thought that i herd voices sodainly, the most sweetest and most delicious that ever any wight, i trow trewly, herde in +his lyf, for [that] the armony and sweet accord was in so good musyk, thát the voice to angels most was lyk. at the last, out of a grove even by, the leaf. that was right goodly and plesaunt to sight, i sy where there cam singing lustily a world of ladies; but to tell aright their greet beautè, it lyth not in my might, ne their array; nevertheless, i shal tell you a part, though i speke not of al. +in surcotes whyte, of veluet wel sitting, they were [y-]clad; and the semes echoon, as it were a maner garnishing, was set with emeraudës, oon and oon, by and by; but many a richë stoon was set [up-]on the purfils, out of dout, of colors, sleves, and trainës round about; as gret[e] perlës, round and orient, diamondës fyne and rubies rede, and many another stoon, of which i +want the namës now; and everich on her hede a richë fret of gold, which, without drede, was ful of statly richë stonës set; and every lady had a chapëlet on her hede, of [leves] fresh and grene, so wel [y-]wrought, and so mervéilously, thát it was a noble sight to sene; some of laurer, and some ful plesauntly had chapëlets of woodbind, and sadly some of _agnus-castus_ ware also chápëlets fresh; but there were many tho that daunced and eek song ful soberly; but al they yede in maner of compas. but oon ther yede in-mid the company sole by her-self; but al folowed the pace [which] that she kept, whos hevenly-figured face so plesaunt was, and her wel-shape persòn, that of beautè she past hem everichon. and more richly beseen, by manifold, she was also, in every maner thing; on her heed, ful plesaunt to behold, a crowne of gold, rich for any king; a braunch of _agnus-castus_ eek bering in her hand; and, to my sight, trewly, she lady was of [al] the company. and she began a roundel lustily, that _sus le foyl de vert moy_ men call, _seen, et mon joly cuer endormi_; and than the company answéred all with voice[s] swete entuned and so small, that me thought it the sweetest melody that ever i herdë in my lyf, soothly. and thus they came[n], dauncing and singing, into the middes of the mede echone, before the herber, where i was sitting, and, god wot, me thought i was wel bigon; for than i might avyse hem, on by on, who fairest was, who coud best dance or sing, or who most womanly was in al thing. they had not daunced but a litel throw when that i herd, not fer of, sodainly so greet a noise of thundring trumpës blow, as though it shuld have départed the sky; and, after that, within a whyle i sy from the same grove, where the ladyes come out, of men of armës coming such a rout as al the men on erth had been assembled in that place, wel horsed for the nones, stering so fast, that al the erth[ë] trembled; but for to speke of riches and [of] stones, and men and hors, i trow, the largë wones of prester john, ne al his tresory might not unneth have bought the tenth party! of their array who-so list herë more, i shal reherse, so as i can, a lyte. out of the grove, that i spak of before, i sy come first, al in their clokes whyte, a company, that ware, for their delyt, chapëlets fresh of okës cereal newly spronge, and trumpets they were al. on every trumpe hanging a brood banere of fyn tartarium, were ful richly bete; every trumpet his lordës armës +bere; about their nekkës, with gret perlës set, colers brode; for cost they would not lete, as it would seme; for their scochones echoon were set about with many a precious stoon. their hors-harneys was al whyte also; and after hem next, in on company, cámë kingës of armës, and no mo, in clokës of whyte cloth of gold, richly; chapelets of greene on their hedes on hy, the crownës that they on their scochones bere were set with perlë, ruby, and saphere, and eek gret diamondës many on; but al their hors-harneys and other gere was in a sute àccording, everichon, as ye have herd the foresayd trumpets were; and, by seeming, they were nothing to lere; and their gyding they did so manerly. and after hem cam a greet company of heraudës and pursevauntës eke arrayed in clothës of whyt veluët; and hardily, they were nothing to seke how they [up]on hem shuld the harneys set; and every man had on a chapëlet; scóchones and eke hors-harneys, indede, they had in sute of hem that before hem yede. next after hem, came in armour bright, al save their hedes, seemely knightës nyne; and every clasp and nail, as to my sight, of their harneys, were of red gold fyne; with cloth of gold, and furred with ermyne were the trappurës of their stedës strong, wyde and large, that to the ground did hong; and every bosse of brydel and peitrel that they had, was worth, as i would wene, a thousand pound; and on their hedës, wel dressed, were crownës [al] of laurer grene, the best [y-]mad that ever i had seen; and every knight had after him ryding three henshmen, [up]on him awaiting; of whiche +the first, upon a short tronchoun, his lordës helme[t] bar, so richly dight, that the worst was worth[y] the raunsoun of a[ny] king; the second a sheld bright bar at his nekke; the thridde bar upright a mighty spere, ful sharpe [y-]ground and kene; and every child ware, of leves grene, a fresh chapelet upon his heres bright; and clokes whyte, of fyn veluet they ware; their stedës trapped and [a]rayed right without[en] difference, as their lordës were. and after hem, on many a fresh co[u]rsere, there came of armed knightës such a rout that they besprad the largë feld about. and al they ware[n], after their degrees, chapëlets new, made of laurer grene, some of oke, and some of other trees; some in their handës berë boughës shene, some of laurer, and some of okës kene, some of hawthorn, and some of woodbind, and many mo, which i had not in mind. and so they came, their hors freshly stering with bloody sownës of hir trompës loud; ther sy i many an uncouth disgysing in the array of these knightës proud; and at the last, as evenly as they coud, they took their places in-middes of the mede, and every knight turned his horse[s] hede to his felawe, and lightly laid a spere in the [a]rest, and so justës began on every part about[en], here and there; som brak his spere, som drew down hors and man; about the feld astray the stedës ran; and, to behold their rule and governaunce, i you ensure, it was a greet plesaunce. and so the justës last an houre and more; but tho that crowned were in laurer grene wan the pryse; their dintës were so sore that ther was non ayenst hem might sustene; and [than] the justing al was left of clene; and fro their hors the +nine alight anon; and so did al the remnant everichon. and forth they yede togider, twain and twain, that to behold, it was a worldly sight, toward the ladies on the grenë plain, that song and daunced, as i sayd now right. the ladies, as soone as they goodly might, they breke[n] of both the song and dance, and yede to mete hem, with ful glad semblance. and every lady took, ful womanly, bý the hond a knight, and forth they yede unto a fair laurer that stood fast by, with levës lade, the boughës of gret brede; and to my dome, there never was, indede, [a] man that had seen half so fair a tree; for underneth it there might wel have be an hundred persons, at their own plesaunce, shadowed fro the hete of phebus bright so that they shuld have felt no [greet] grevaunce of rain, ne hail, that hem hurt[ë] might. the savour eek rejoice would any wight that had be sick or melancolious, it was so very good and vertuous. and with gret reverence they +enclyned low [un]to the tree, so sote and fair of hew; and after that, within a litel throw, +bigonne they to sing and daunce of-new; some song of love, some playning of untrew, environing the tree that stood upright; and ever yede a lady and a knight. and at the last i cast myn eye asyde, the flower. and was ware of a lusty company that came, roming out of the feld wyde, hond in hond, a knight and a lady; the ladies alle in surcotes, that richly purfyled were with many a riche stoon; and every knight of greene ware mantles on, embrouded wel, so as the surcotes were, and everich had a chapelet on her hede; which did right wel upon the shyning here, made of goodly floures, whyte and rede. the knightës eke, that they in hond lede, in sute of hem, ware chapelets everichon; and hem before went minstrels many on, as harpës, pypës, lutës, and sautry, al in greene; and on their hedës bare of dyvers flourës, mad ful craftily, al in a sute, goodly chapelets they ware; and so, dauncing, into the mede they fare, in-mid the which they found a tuft that was al oversprad with flourës in compas. where[un]to they enclyned everichon with greet reverence, and that ful humblely; and, at the last[ë], there began anon a lady for to sing right womanly a bargaret in praising the daisy; for, as me thought, among her notës swete, she sayd, '_si doucë est la margarete_.' thén they al answéred her infere, so passingly wel, and so plesauntly, thát it was a blisful noise to here. but i not [how], it happed sodainly, as, about noon, the sonne so fervently wex hoot, that [al] the prety tender floures had lost the beautè of hir fresh coloures, for-shronk with hete; the ladies eek to-brent, that they ne wist where they hem might bestow. the knightës swelt, for lak of shade ny shent; and after that, within a litel throw, the wind began so sturdily to blow, that down goth al the flourës everichon so that in al the mede there laft not on, save suche as socoured were, among the leves, fro every storme, that might hem assail, growing under hegges and thikke greves; and after that, there came a storm of hail and rain in-fere, so that, withouten fail, the ladies ne the knightës n'ade o threed drye [up]on hem, so dropping was hir weed. and when the storm was clene passed away, tho [clad] in whyte, that stood under the tree, they felt[ë] nothing of the grete affray, that they in greene without had in y-be. to hem they yedë for routh and pitè, hem to comfort after their greet disese; so fain they were the helpless for to ese. then was i ware how oon of hem in grene had on a crown[ë], rich and wel sitting; wherfore i demed wel she was a quene, and tho in greene on her were awaiting. the ladies then in whyte that were coming toward[ës] hem, and the knightës in-fere began to comfort hem and make hem chere. the quene in whyte, that was of grete beautè, took by the hond the queen that was in grene, and said, 'suster, i have right greet pitè of your annoy, and of the troublous tene wherein ye and your company have been so long, alas! and, if that it you plese to go with me, i shal do you the ese in al the pleisir that i can or may.' wherof the tother, humbly as she might, thanked her; for in right ill aray she was, with storm and hete, i you behight. and every lady then, anon-right, that were in whyte, oon of hem took in grene by the hond; which when the knightes had seen, in lyke wyse, ech of hem took a knight clad in grene, and forth with hem they fare [un]to an heggë, where they, anon-right, to make their justës, [lo!] they would not spare boughës to hew down, and eek treës square, wherewith they made hem stately fyres grete to dry their clothës that were wringing wete. and after that, of herbës that there grew, they made, for blisters of the sonne brenning, very good and hoolsom ointments new, where that they yede, the sick fast anointing; and after that, they yede about gadring plesaunt saladës, which they made hem ete, for to refresh their greet unkindly hete. the lady of the leef then gan to pray her of the flour, (for so to my seeming they should[ë] be, as by their [quaint] array), to soupe with her; and eek, for any thing, that she should with her al her people bring. and she ayein, in right goodly manere, thanketh her of her most freendly chere, saying plainly, that she would obey with al her hert al her commaundëment, and then anon, without lenger delay, the lady of the leef hath oon y-sent for a palfray, [as] after her intent, arayed wel and fair in harneys of gold, for nothing lakked, that to him long shold. and after that, to al her company she made to purvey hors and every thing that they needed; and then, ful lustily, even by the herber where i was sitting, they passed al, so plesantly singing, that it would have comfórted any wight; but then i sy a passing wonder sight:-- for then the nightingale, that al the day had in the laurer sete, and did her might the hool servyse to sing longing to may, al sodainly [be]gan to take her flight; and to the lady of the leef forthright she flew, and set her on her hond softly, which was a thing i marveled of gretly. the goldfinch eek, that fro the medle-tree was fled, for hete, into the bushes cold, unto the lady of the flour gan flee, and on her hond he set him, as he wold, and plesantly his wingës gan to fold; and for to sing they pained hem both as sore as they had do of al the day before. and so these ladies rood forth a gret pace, and al the rout of knightës eek in-fere; and i, that had seen al this wonder case, thought [that] i would assay, in some manere, to know fully the trouth of this matere, and what they were that rood so plesantly. and, when they were the herber passed by, i drest me forth, and happed to mete anon right a fair lady, i you ensure; and she cam ryding by herself aloon, al in whyte, with semblance ful demure. i salued her, and bad good aventure +might her befall, as i coud most humbly; and she answered, 'my doughter, gramercy!' 'madam,' quod i, 'if that i durst enquere of you, i wold fain, of that company, wit what they be that past by this herbere?' and she ayein answéred right freendly: 'my fair daughter, al tho that passed hereby in whyte clothing, be servants everichoon unto the leef, and i my-self am oon. see ye not her that crowned is,' quod she, 'al in whyte?' 'madamë,' quod i, 'yis!' 'that is diane, goddesse of chastitè; and, for bicause that she a maiden is, in her hond the braunch she bereth, this that _agnus-castus_ men call properly; and alle the ladies in her company which ye see of that herb[ë] chaplets were, be such as han kept +ay hir maidenhede; and al they that of laurer chaplets bere be such as hardy were and +wan, indede, victorious name which never may be dede. and al they were so worthy of hir hond, [as] in hir tyme, that non might hem withstond. and tho that werë chapelets on hir hede of fresh woodbind, be such as never were to love untrew in word, [ne] thought, ne dede, but ay stedfast; ne for plesaunce, ne fere, though that they shuld hir hertës al to-tere, would never flit, but ever were stedfast, til that their lyves there asunder brast.' 'now, fair madam,' quod i, 'yet i would pray your ladiship, if that it might be, that i might know[ë], by some maner way, sith that it hath [y-]lyked your beautè, the trouth of these ladies for to tel me; what that these knightës be, in rich armour; and what tho be in grene, and were the flour; and why that some did reverence to the tree, and some unto the plot of flourës fair?' 'with right good wil, my fair doughter,' quod she, 'sith your desyr is good and debonair. tho nine, crownèd, be very exemplair of all honour longing to chivalry, and those, certain, be called the nine worthy, which ye may see [here] ryding al before, that in hir tyme did many a noble dede, and, for their worthines, ful oft have bore the crowne of laurer-leves on their hede, as ye may in your old[ë] bokes rede; and how that he, that was a conquerour, had by laurer alway his most honour. and tho that bere boughës in their hond of the precious laurer so notáble, be such as were, i wol ye understond, noble knightës of the round[ë] table, and eek the douseperes honourable; which they bere in signe of victory, +as witness of their dedes mightily. eek there be knightës olde of the garter, that in hir tyme did right worthily; and the honour they did to the laurer is, for by [it] they have their laud hoolly, their triumph eek, and martial glory; which unto hem is more parfyt richesse than any wight imagine can or gesse. for oon leef given of that noble tree to any wight that hath don worthily, and it be doon so as it ought to be, is more honour then any thing erthly. witnesse of rome that founder was, truly, of all knighthood and dedës marvelous; record i take of titus livius. and as for her that crowned is in greene, it is flora, of these flourës goddesse; and al that here on her awaiting been, it are such [folk] that loved idlenes, and not delyte [had] of no busines but for to hunt and hauke, and pley in medes, and many other such [lyk] idle dedes. and for the greet delyt and [the] plesaunce they have [un]to the flour, so reverently they unto it do such [gret] obeisaunce, as ye may see.' 'now, fair madame,' quod i, 'if i durst ask what is the cause and why that knightës have the signe of [al] honour rather by the leef than by the flour?' 'sothly, doughter,' quod she, 'this is the trouth: for knightës ever should be persévering, to seeke honour without feintyse or slouth, fro wele to better, in al maner thing; in signe of which, with levës ay lasting they be rewarded after their degree, whos lusty grene may not appeired be, but ay keping hir beautè fresh and greene; for there nis storm [non] that may hem deface, hail nor snow, wind nor frostës kene; wherfore they have this propertè and grace. and for the flour within a litel space wol be [y-]lost, so simple of nature they be, that they no grevance may endure, and every storm wil blow hem sone away, ne they last not but [as] for a sesoun, that +is the cause, the very trouth to say, that they may not, by no way of resoun, be put to no such occupacioun.' 'madame,' quod i, 'with al my hool servyse i thank you now, in my most humble wyse. for now i am acértainèd throughly of every thing i désired to know.' 'i am right glad that i have said, sothly, ought to your pleysir, if ye wil me trow,' quod she ayein, 'but to whom do ye ow your servyce? and which wil ye honour, tel me, i pray, this yeer, the leef or flour?' 'madame,' quod i, 'though i [be] leest worthy, unto the leef i ow myn observaunce.' 'that is,' quod she, 'right wel don, certainly, and i pray god to honour you avaunce, and kepe you fro the wikked rémembraunce of male-bouche, and al his crueltè; and alle that good and wel-condicioned be. for here may i no lenger now abyde, i must folowe the gret[ë] company that ye may see yonder before you ryde.' and forth[right], as i couth, most humblely, i took my leve of her as she gan hy after hem, as fast as ever she might; and i drow hoomward, for it was nigh night; and put al that i had seen in wryting, under support of hem that lust it rede. o litel book, thou art so unconning, how darst thou put thy-self in prees for drede? it is wonder that thou wexest not rede, sith that thou wost ful lyte who shal behold thy rude langage, ful boistously unfold. _explicit._ _from_ speght's edition ( ); _i note rejected readings_. . hie. . boole. . sweet; raine; oft (!). . wholesome aire. . plaine was clothed faire. . new greene. small flours. . field and in mede. . wholsome. . renueth. . hearbe. . season; _i supply_ ful. . season. . certaine. . sleepe. . earthly. . hearts ease. . then; nad sicknesse; disease. . meruaile greatly; selfe. . rose; twelfe. . _i supply_ very. . geare; mine. . pleasaunt. . bright. . great. . grasse. . sprong. . well; fellow. . lade. . ayen. . some; red; some. . song (_read_ songes); fort (_sic_). . earthly. . heare; all. . full; herkened; hart and with eare. . litle breade. . greatly. . grasse. . well; _i supply_ ther. . some. . followed till. . pleasaunt; well. . _i supply_ al; turfes. . thicke. . lyke vnto (_read_ to); wel (!; _read_ wol). . _i supply_ as. . (_perhaps imperfect_); all; green. . eglatere; _see_ l. . . wrethen. . branch; leafe. . an (_better_ on). . _i supply_ that; see. . done; tooke. . _i supply_ for; all; peine. . all; seyne. . roofe. . _i supply_ is. . thicke; _i supply_ is; wall. . would all. . should. . one; well. . all. . field. . corne; grasse; doubt. . one would seeke all. . field; _i supply_ ne; espide. . on; coast; quantity. . all; _i supply_ greet; plenty. . all; pleasannt sight sie. . aire. . _i supply_ come; eglentere. . heart; dispaire. . with thoughts; contraire. . should. . soote. . mine eie. . all; life; sie. . blosomes. . leaping pretile. . buds. . eaten; eat. . pleasaunt then. . when. . merry. . all; wood. . sote. . thorow; till. . i ne wist (_better_ ne wist i). . ayen (!). . i waited about. . might. . full well. . greene laurey (_error for_ laurer); _see_ l. . . smell. . eglentere full well. . great pleasure. . desire. . _i supply_ to. . grasse. . downe; mine. . birds. . pleasaunt. . meat; drinke. . wholsome; eke. . pleasaunt; none earthly. . birds harkening. . heard. . heard; their (_error for_ his); _i supply_ that. . musike. . like. . pleasant. . sie; came. . great beauty; lieth. . shall. . speake; all. . the (!; _read_ in); wele. . were clad; echone. . emerauds one and one. . rich. . on; purfiles. . great pearles. . diamonds; red. . stone; went (_for_ want). . head. . rich; dread. . stately rich. . head; _i supply_ leves. . wele wrought; meruelously. . pleasantly. . were; _read_ ware, _as in_ . . of tho (_om._ of). . eke. . all; compace. . one. . soole; selfe; all followed. . _i supply_ which; whose heauenly. . pleasaunt; wele. . beauty; -one. . beseene. . head; pleasaunt. . goldë (?). . eke bearing. . _i supply_ al. . roundell lustely. . suse; foyle. . seen (_sic_); en dormy, _before which we should perhaps supply_ est. . voice sweet. . heard. . came. . bigone. . one by one. . all. . little. . heard. . great; thundering trumps. . skie. . sie. . comming. . all. . wele. . all; earth. . speake; _i supply_ of. . horse. . pretir (!); all. . their (_read_ hir?); heare. . rehearse. . spake. . sie; all; their (_read_ hir?). . were: _read_ ware (_as in_ ); delite. . seriall (_for_ cereal). . sprong; all. . broad. . fine; richely. . lords; here (_read_ bere); _see_ . . (_and often_): their (_for_ hir). neckes; great pearles. . echone. . stone. . horse; all. . them (_for_ hem); one. . kings. . heads; hye. . crowns. . pearle. . eke great diamonds; one. . all; horse; geare. . euerichone. . heard. . there guiding. . great. . herauds; purseuaunts. . white. . on; should. . horse. . him (_for nd_ hem). . heads; knights. . claspe; naile. . their (_for_ hir?); _so in_ , , , , , (there), ; &c. . their (_for_ hir?); _so in_ , &c. . boose (!); bridle; paitrell. . heads well. . _i supply_ al. . made; sene. . on. . whiche euery on a. . lords helme bare. . worth. . a (_read_ any); shield. . bare; neck; thred bare. . spheare (!); ground. . haires. . fine. were; _read_ ware (_as in_ ). . steeds; raied. . without; lords. . knights. . field. . were; _read_ waren. . honds bare. . hauthorne. . horses. . sie; disguising. . knights. . their (_for_ hir? _see_ ); _so in_ , &c. . horse. . fellow; speare. . rest. . about. . some brake; some. . field; steeds. . great pleasaunce. . dints. . none. . _i supply_ than; all. . horse. ninth; _read_ nine. . worldly (_perhaps read_ worthy). . green. . brake; they (_error for_ the). . meet; full. . tooke. . faire. . great. . _i supply_ a; halfe; faire. . underneath. . their (_for_ hir?); plesance. . heat. . should; _i supply_ greet. . raine; haile; hurt. . eke. . sicke; melancolius. . enclining; _read_ enclyned; _see_ . . to; soot; faire. . little. . they began to. . mine. . field. . all; richely. . rich. . well. . hed. . well. . red. . knights; led. . euerichone. . before hem; one. . heads. . made full craftely. . whereto. . great; humbly. . last. . daisie. . douset & la. . all. . well; pleasauntly. . _i supply_ how. . noone. . waxe whote; _i supply_ al. . beauty. . forshronke; heat; eke. . knights; lack; nie. . little. . down goeth all; euerichone. . all; one. . succoured. . assaile. . thicke. . storme; haile. . raine in feare; faile. . knights. . on them so; her. . cleane. . _i supply_ clad. . felt; great. . them (_for_ hem). . them (_for_ hem); great disease. . faine; helplesse; ease. . one. . crown; well. . toward them; knights. . queen; great beauty. . tooke. . great pity. . bene. . please. . shall; ease. . all; pleasure. . heat. . one; them. . knights; sene. . them. . to. . iusts; _supply_ lo. . downe; eke. . great. . weat. . hearbs. . wholsome. . annointing. . gadering. . pleasaunt; eat. . great; heat. . leafe; began (_for_ gan). . floure. . should; _i supply_ quaint. . eke. . all. . ayen. . friendly cheare. . obay. . all; hart all. . leafe; one. . _i supply_ al. . well; faire. . lacked; should. . all. . horse. . all; pleasantly. . sie. . all. . whol seruice. . gan. . leafe. . greatly. . eke; medill. . heat. . flower; fle. . hir. . pleasantly; wings. . all. . rode; great. . knights. . sene all. . _i supply_ that. . rode; pleasantly. . faire. . come; hir selfe alone. . all. . saluted (_read_ salued); bad her good (_omit_ her). . must (_read_ might). . faine. . arbere. . ayen; friendly. . faire; all. . euerichone. . leafe; selfe; one. . all; yes (_read_ yis). . goddes; chastity. . all. . hearb. . kepte; alway (_read_ ay); her. . beare. . manly (_read_ wan). . all; ther (_read_ hir). . _i supply_ as; none. . weare; ther (_read_ hir). . untrue; _i supply_ ne. . aye; pleasance. . their harts all. . till; their (_read_ hir?). . faire. . know. . liked. . tell. . knights. . weare. . faire. . will; doghter. . youre desire; debonaire. . exemplaire. . certaine. . _i supply_ here. . their (_read_ hir? _see_ ); _so in_ , &c. . leaues. . old bookes. . beare. bowes; _see_ . . woll. . knights; round. . eke; douseperis. . beare. . it is (_but read_ as). . eke; knights old. . _i supply_ it; wholly. . eke; marshall (!). . them; riches. . one leafe. , . done. . earthly. . witnes. . deeds. . all; beene. . _i supply_ folk. . delite of; busines. . _i supply_ lyk. . great delite; _i supply_ the; pleasaunce. . to; and so (_omit_ and). . _i supply_ gret. . faire. . aske. . knights; _i supply_ al. . leafe; floure. . knights. . all. . leaues aye. . their; _read_ hir? . whose; green may may (_sic_). . aye; their beauty. . storme; _i supply_ non. . haile; frosts. . propertie. . floure; little. . woll; lost. . greeuance. . storme will; them. . _i supply_ as; season. . that if their (_read_ that is the). . reason. . occupacion. . all mine whole. . thanke. . pleasure; will. . ayen; whome doe; owe. . woll. . tell; yeere; leafe or the flour. . i least. . leafe; owe mine. . well done. . male bouch; all; crueltie. . all. . follow; great. . forth as; humbly. . tooke; hie. . them. . homeward. . all. . them; it to rede (_omit_ to). . little booke. . shall. . full. * * * * * xxi. the assembly of ladies. in septembre, at the falling of the leef, the fressh sesoun was al-togider doon, and of the corn was gadered in the sheef; in a gardyn, about twayn after noon, ther were ladyes walking, as was her wone, foure in nombre, as to my mynd doth falle, and i the fifte, the simplest of hem alle. of gentilwomen fayre ther were also, disporting hem, everiche after her gyse, in crosse-aleys walking, by two and two, and some alone, after her fantasyes. thus occupyed we were in dyvers wyse; and yet, in trouthe, we were not al alone; ther were knightës and squyers many one. 'wherof i served?' oon of hem asked me; i sayde ayein, as it fel in my thought, 'to walke about the mase, in certayntè, as a woman that [of] nothing rought.' he asked me ayein--'whom that i sought, and of my colour why i was so pale?' 'forsothe,' quod i, 'and therby lyth a tale.' 'that must me wite,' quod he, 'and that anon; tel on, let see, and make no tarying.' 'abyd,' quod i, 'ye been a hasty oon, i let you wite it is no litel thing. but, for bicause ye have a greet longing in your desyr, this proces for to here, i shal you tel the playn of this matere.-- it happed thus, that, in an after-noon, my felawship and i, by oon assent, whan al our other besinesse was doon, to passe our tyme, into this mase we went, and toke our wayes, eche after our entent; some went inward, and +wend they had gon out, some stode amid, and loked al about. and, sooth to say, some were ful fer behind, and right anon as ferforth as the best; other ther were, so mased in her mind, al wayes were good for hem, bothe eest and west. thus went they forth, and had but litel rest; and some, her corage did hem sore assayle, for very wrath, they did step over the rayle! and as they sought hem-self thus to and fro, i gat myself a litel avauntage; al for-weried, i might no further go, though i had won right greet, for my viage. so com i forth into a strait passage, which brought me to an herber fair and grene, mad with benches, ful craftily and clene, that, as me thought, ther might no crëature devyse a better, by dew proporcioun; safe it was closed wel, i you ensure, with masonry of compas enviroun, ful secretly, with stayres going doun inmiddes the place, with turning wheel, certayn; and upon that, a pot of marjolain; with margarettes growing in ordinaunce, to shewe hemself, as folk went to and fro, that to beholde it was a greet plesaunce, and how they were acompanyed with mo ne-m'oublie-mies and sovenez also; the povre pensees were not disloged there; no, no! god wot, her place was every-where! the flore beneth was paved faire and smothe with stones square, of many dyvers hew, so wel joynëd that, for to say the sothe, al semed oon (who that non other knew); and underneth, the stremës new and new, as silver bright, springing in suche a wyse that, whence it cam, ye coude it not devyse. a litel whyle thus was i al alone, beholding wel this délectable place; my felawship were coming everichone, so must me nedes abyde, as for a space. rememb[e]ring of many dyvers cace of tyme passed, musing with sighes depe, i set me doun, and ther i fel a-slepe. and, as i slept, me thought ther com to me a gentilwoman, metely of stature; of greet worship she semed for to be, atyred wel, not high, but by mesure; her countenaunce ful sad and ful demure; her colours blewe, al that she had upon; ther com no mo [there] but herself aloon. her gown was wel embrouded, certainly, with sovenez, after her own devyse; on her purfyl her word [was] by and by _bien et loyalment_, as i coud devyse. than prayde i her, in every maner wyse that of her name i might have remembraunce; she sayd, she called was perséveraunce. so furthermore to speke than was i bold, where she dwelled, i prayed her for to say; and she again ful curteysly me told, "my dwelling is, and hath ben many a day with a lady."--"what lady, i you pray?" "of greet estate, thus warne i you," quod she; "what cal ye her?"--"her name is loyaltè." "in what offyce stand ye, or in what degrè?" quod i to her, "that wolde i wit right fayn." "i am," quod she, "unworthy though i be, of her chambre her ussher, in certayn; this rod i bere, as for a token playn, lyke as ye know the rule in such servyce pertayning is unto the same offyce. she charged me, by her commaundëment, to warn you and your felawes everichon, that ye shuld come there as she is present, for a counsayl, which shal be now anon, or seven dayës be comen and gon. and furthermore, she bad that i shuld say excuse there might be non, nor [no] delay. another thing was nigh forget behind whiche in no wyse i wolde but ye it knew; remembre wel, and bere it in your mind, al your felawes and ye must come in blew, every liche able your maters for to sew; with more, which i pray you thinke upon, your wordës on your slevës everichon. and be not ye abasshed in no wyse, as many been in suche an high presence; mak your request as ye can best devyse, and she gladly wol yeve you audience. there is no greef, ne no maner offence, wherin ye fele that your herte is displesed, but with her help right sone ye shul be esed." "i am right glad," quod i, "ye tel me this, but there is non of us that knoweth the way." "as of your way," quod she, "ye shul not mis, ye shul have oon to gyde you, day by day, of my felawes (i can no better say) suche oon as shal tel you the way ful right; and diligence this gentilwoman hight. a woman of right famous governaunce, and wel cherisshed, i tel you in certayn; her felawship shal do you greet plesaunce. her port is suche, her maners trewe and playn; she with glad chere wol do her besy payn to bring you there; now farwel, i have don." "abyde," sayd i, "ye may not go so sone." "why so?" quod she, "and i have fer to go to yeve warning in many dyvers place to your felawes, and so to other mo; and wel ye wot, i have but litel space." "now yet," quod i, "ye must tel me this cace, if we shal any man unto us cal?" "not oon," quod she, "may come among you al." "not oon," quod i, "ey! _benedicite!_ what have they don? i pray you tel me that!" "now, by my lyf, i trow but wel," quod she; "but ever i can bileve there is somwhat, and, for to say you trouth, more can i nat; in questiouns i may nothing be large, i medle no further than is my charge." "than thus," quod i, "do me to understand, what place is there this lady is dwelling?" "forsothe," quod she, "and oon sought al this land, fairer is noon, though it were for a king devysed wel, and that in every thing. the toures hy ful plesaunt shul ye find, with fanes fressh, turning with every wind. the chambres and parlours both of oo sort, with bay-windowes, goodly as may be thought, as for daunsing and other wyse disport; the galeryes right wonder wel y-wrought, that i wel wot, if ye were thider brought, and took good hede therof in every wyse, ye wold it thinke a very paradyse." "what hight this place?" quod i; "now say me that." "plesaunt regard," quod she, "to tel you playn." "of verray trouth," quod i, "and, wot ye what, it may right wel be called so, certayn; but furthermore, this wold i wit ful fayn, what shulde i do as sone as i come there, and after whom that i may best enquere?" "a gentilwoman, a porter at the yate there shal ye find; her name is countenaunce; if +it so hap ye come erly or late, of her were good to have som acquaintaunce. she can tel how ye shal you best avaunce, and how to come to her ladyes presence; to her wordës i rede you yeve credence. now it is tyme that i depart you fro; for, in good sooth, i have gret businesse." "i wot right wel," quod i, "that it is so; and i thank you of your gret gentilnesse. your comfort hath yeven me suche hardinesse that now i shal be bold, withouten fayl, to do after your ávyse and counsayl." thus parted she, and i lefte al aloon; with that i saw, as i beheld asyde, a woman come, a verray goodly oon; and forth withal, as i had her aspyed, me thought anon, [that] it shuld be the gyde; and of her name anon i did enquere. ful womanly she yave me this answere. "i am," quod she, "a simple crëature sent from the court; my name is diligence. as sone as i might come, i you ensure, i taried not, after i had licence; and now that i am come to your presence, look, what servyce that i can do or may, commaundë me; i can no further say." i thanked her, and prayed her to come nere, because i wold see how she were arayed; her gown was blew, dressed in good manere with her devyse, her word also, that sayd _tant que je puis_; and i was wel apayd; for than wist i, withouten any more, it was ful trew, that i had herd before. "though we took now before a litel space, it were ful good," quod she, "as i coud gesse." "how fer," quod i, "have we unto that place?" "a dayes journey," quod she, "but litel lesse; wherfore i redë that we onward dresse; for, i suppose, our felawship is past, and for nothing i wold that we were last." than parted we, at springing of the day, and forth we wente [a] soft and esy pace, til, at the last, we were on our journey so fer onward, that we might see the place. "now let us rest," quod i, "a litel space, and say we, as devoutly as we can, a _pater-noster_ for saint julian." "with al my herte, i assent with good wil; much better shul we spede, whan we have don." than taried we, and sayd it every del. and whan the day was fer gon after noon, we saw a place, and thider cam we sone, which rounde about was closed with a wal, seming to me ful lyke an hospital. ther found i oon, had brought al myn aray, a gentilwoman of myn aquaintaunce. "i have mervayl," quod i, "what maner way ye had knowlege of al this ordenaunce." "yis, yis," quod she, "i herd perséveraunce, how she warned your felawes everichon, and what aray that ye shulde have upon." "now, for my love," quod i, "this i you pray, sith ye have take upon you al the payn, that ye wold helpe me on with myn aray; for wit ye wel, i wold be gon ful fayn." "al this prayer nedeth not, certayn;" quod she agayn; "com of, and hy you sone, and ye shal see how wel it shal be doon." "but this i dout me greetly, wot ye what, that my felawes ben passed by and gon." "i warant you," quod she, "that ar they nat; for here they shul assemble everichon. notwithstanding, i counsail you anon; mak you redy, and tary ye no more, it is no harm, though ye be there afore." so than i dressed me in myn aray, and asked her, whether it were wel or no? "it is right wel," quod she, "unto my pay; ye nede not care to what place ever ye go." and whyl that she and i debated so, cam diligence, and saw me al in blew: "sister," quod she, "right wel brouk ye your new!" than went we forth, and met at aventure a yong woman, an officer seming: "what is your name," quod i, "good crëature?" "discrecioun," quod she, "without lesing." "and where," quod i, "is your most abyding?" "i have," quod she, "this office of purchace, cheef purveyour, that longeth to this place." "fair love," quod i, "in al your ordenaunce, what is her name that is the herbegere?" "for sothe," quod she, "her name is acquaintaunce, a woman of right gracious manere." than thus quod i, "what straungers have ye here?" "but few," quod she, "of high degree ne low; ye be the first, as ferforth as i know." thus with talës we cam streight to the yate; this yong woman departed was and gon; cam diligence, and knokked fast therat; "who is without?" quod countenaunce anon. "trewly," quod i, "fair sister, here is oon!" "which oon?" quod she, and therwithal she lough; "i, diligence! ye know me wel ynough." than opened she the yate, and in we go; with wordës fair she sayd ful gentilly, "ye are welcome, ywis! are ye no mo?" "nat oon," quod she, "save this woman and i." "now than," quod she, "i pray yow hertely, tak my chambre, as for a whyl, to rest til your felawës come, i holde it best." i thanked her, and forth we gon echon til her chambre, without[en] wordës mo. cam diligence, and took her leve anon; "wher-ever you list," quod i, "now may ye go; and i thank you right hertely also of your labour, for which god do you meed; i can no more, but jesu be your speed!" than countenauncë asked me anon, "your felawship, where ben they now?" quod she. "for sothe," quod i, "they be coming echon; but in certayn, i know nat wher they be, without i may hem at this window see. here wil i stande, awaytinge ever among, for, wel i wot, they wil nat now be long." thus as i stood musing ful busily, i thought to take good hede of her aray, her gown was blew, this wot i verely, of good fasoun, and furred wel with gray; upon her sleve her word (this is no nay), which sayd thus, as my pennë can endyte, _a moi que je voy_, writen with lettres whyte. than forth withal she cam streight unto me, "your word," quod she, "fayn wold i that i knew." "forsothe," quod i, "ye shal wel knowe and see, and for my word, i have non; this is trew. it is ynough that my clothing be blew, as here-before i had commaundëment; and so to do i am right wel content. but tel me this, i pray you hertely, the steward here, say me, what is her name?" "she hight largesse, i say you suërly; a fair lady, and of right noble fame. whan ye her see, ye wil report the same. and under her, to bid you welcome al, there is belchere, the marshal of the hall. now al this whyle that ye here tary stil, your own maters ye may wel have in mind. but tel me this, have ye brought any bil?" "ye, ye," quod i, "or els i were behind. where is there oon, tel me, that i may find to whom that i may shewe my matters playn?" "surely," quod she, "unto the chamberlayn." "the chamberlayn?" quod i, "[now] say ye trew?" "ye, verely," sayd she, "by myne advyse; be nat aferd; unto her lowly sew." "it shal be don," quod i, "as ye devyse; but ye must knowe her name in any wyse?" "trewly," quod she, "to tell you in substaunce, without fayning, her name is remembraunce. the secretary yit may not be forget; for she may do right moche in every thing. wherfore i rede, whan ye have with her met, your mater hool tel her, without fayning; ye shal her finde ful good and ful loving." "tel me her name," quod i, "of gentilnesse." "by my good sooth," quod she, "avysënesse." "that name," quod i, "for her is passing good; for every bil and cedule she must see; now good," quod i, "com, stand there-as i stood; my felawes be coming; yonder they be." "is it [a] jape, or say ye sooth?" quod she. "in jape? nay, nay; i say you for certain; see how they come togider, twain and twain!" "ye say ful sooth," quod she, "that is no nay; i see coming a goodly company." "they been such folk," quod i, "i dar wel say, that list to love; thinke it ful verily. and, for my love, i pray you faithfully, at any tyme, whan they upon you cal, that ye wol be good frend unto hem al." "of my frendship," quod she, "they shal nat mis, and for their ese, to put therto my payn." "god yelde it you!" quod i; "but tel me this, how shal we know who is the chamberlayn?" "that shal ye wel know by her word, certayn." "what is her word? sister, i pray you say." "_plus ne purroy_; thus wryteth she alway." thus as we stood togider, she and i, even at the yate my felawes were echon. so met i hem, as me thought was goodly, and bad hem welcome al, by on and on. than forth cam [lady] countenaunce anon; "ful hertely, fair sisters al," quod she, "ye be right welcome into this countree. i counsail you to take a litel rest in my chambre, if it be your plesaunce. whan ye be there, me thinketh for the best that i go in, and cal perséveraunce, because she is oon of your aquaintaunce; and she also wil tel you every thing how ye shal be ruled of your coming." my felawes al and i, by oon avyse, were wel agreed to do lyke as she sayd. than we began to dresse us in our gyse, that folk shuld see we were nat unpurvayd; and good wageours among us there we layd, which of us was atyred goodliest, and of us al which shuld be praysed best. the porter cam, and brought perséveraunce; she welcomed us in ful curteys manere: "think ye nat long," quod she, "your attendaunce; i wil go speke unto the herbergere, that she may purvey for your logging here. than wil i go unto the chamberlayn to speke for you, and come anon agayn." and whan [that] she departed was and gon, we saw folkës coming without the wal, so greet people, that nombre coud we non; ladyes they were and gentilwomen al, clothed in blew, echon her word withal; but for to knowe her word or her devyse, they cam so thikke, that i might in no wyse. with that anon cam in perséveraunce, and where i stood, she cam streight [un]to me. "ye been," quod she, "of myne olde acquaintaunce; you to enquere, the bolder wolde i be; what word they bere, eche after her degree, i pray you, tel it me in secret wyse; and i shal kepe it close, on warantyse." "we been," quod i, "fyve ladies al in-fere, and gentilwomen foure in company; whan they begin to open hir matere, than shal ye knowe hir wordës by and by; but as for me, i have non verely, and so i told countenaunce here-before; al myne aray is blew; what nedeth more?" "now than," quod she, "i wol go in agayn, that ye may have knowlege, what ye shuld do." "in sooth," quod i, "if ye wold take the payn, ye did right moch for us, if ye did so. the rather sped, the soner may we go. gret cost alway ther is in tarying; and long to sewe, it is a wery thing." than parted she, and cam again anon; "ye must," quod she, "come to the chamberlayn." "we been," quod i, "now redy everichon to folowe you whan-ever ye list, certayn. we have non eloquence, to tel you playn; beseching you we may be so excused, our trew mening, that it be not refused." than went we forth, after perséveraunce, to see the prees; it was a wonder cace; there for to passe it was greet comb[e]raunce, the people stood so thikke in every place. "now stand ye stil," quod she, "a litel space; and for your ese somwhat i shal assay, if i can make you any better way." and forth she goth among hem everichon, making a way, that we might thorugh pas more at our ese; and whan she had so don, she beckned us to come where-as she was; so after her we folowed, more and las. she brought us streight unto the chamberlayn; there left she us, and than she went agayn. we salued her, as reson wolde it so, ful humb[el]ly beseching her goodnesse, in our maters that we had for to do that she wold be good lady and maistresse. "ye be welcome," quod she, "in sothfastnesse, and see, what i can do you for to plese, i am redy, that may be to your ese." we folowed her unto the chambre-dore, "sisters," quod she, "come ye in after me." but wite ye wel, there was a paved flore, the goodliest that any wight might see; and furthermore, about than loked we on eche corner, and upon every wal, the which was mad of berel and cristal; wherein was graven of stories many oon; first how phyllis, of womanly pitè, deyd pitously, for love of demophoon. nexte after was the story of tisbee, how she slew her-self under a tree. yet saw i more, how in right pitous cas for antony was slayn cleopatras. that other syde was, how hawes the shene untrewly was disceyved in her bayn. there was also annelida the quene, upon arcyte how sore she did complayn. al these stories were graved there, certayn; and many mo than i reherce you here; it were to long to tel you al in-fere. and, bicause the wallës shone so bright, with fyne umple they were al over-sprad, to that intent, folk shuld nat hurte hir sight; and thorugh it the stories might be rad. than furthermore i went, as i was lad; and there i saw, without[en] any fayl, a chayrë set, with ful riche aparayl. and fyve stages it was set fro the ground, of cassidony ful curiously wrought; with four pomelles of golde, and very round, set with saphyrs, as good as coud be thought; that, wot ye what, if it were thorugh sought, as i suppose, fro this countrey til inde, another suche it were right fer to finde! for, wite ye wel, i was right nere that, so as i durst, beholding by and by; above ther was a riche cloth of estate, wrought with the nedle ful straungëly, her word thereon; and thus it said trewly, _a endurer_, to tel you in wordës few, with grete letters, the better i hem knew. thus as we stode, a dore opened anon; a gentilwoman, semely of stature, beringe a mace, cam out, her-selfe aloon; sothly, me thought, a goodly crëature! she spak nothing to lowde, i you ensure, nor hastily, but with goodly warning: "mak room," quod she, "my lady is coming!" with that anon i saw perséveraunce, how she held up the tapet in her hand. i saw also, in right good ordinaunce, this greet lady within the tapet stand, coming outward, i wol ye understand; and after her a noble company, i coud nat tel the nombre sikerly. of their namës i wold nothing enquere further than suche as we wold sewe unto, sauf oo lady, which was the chauncellere, attemperaunce; sothly her name was so. for us nedeth with her have moch to do in our maters, and alway more and more. and, so forth, to tel you furthermore, of this lady her beautè to discryve, my conning is to simple, verely; for never yet, the dayës of my lyve, so inly fair i have non seen, trewly. in her estate, assured utterly, there wanted naught, i dare you wel assure, that longed to a goodly crëature. and furthermore, to speke of her aray, i shal you tel the maner of her gown; of clothe of gold ful riche, it is no nay; the colour blew, of a right good fasoun; in tabard-wyse the slevës hanging doun; and what purfyl there was, and in what wyse, so as i can, i shal it you devyse. after a sort the coller and the vent, lyk as ermyne is mad in purfeling; with grete perlës, ful fyne and orient, they were couchèd, al after oon worching, with dyamonds in stede of powdering; the slevës and purfilles of assyse; they were [y-]mad [ful] lyke, in every wyse. aboute her nekke a sort of fair rubyes, in whyte floures of right fyne enamayl; upon her heed, set in the freshest wyse, a cercle with gret balays of entayl; that, in ernest to speke, withouten fayl, for yonge and olde, and every maner age, it was a world to loke on her visage. thus coming forth, to sit in her estat, in her presence we kneled down echon, presentinge up our billes, and, wot ye what, ful humb[el]ly she took hem, by on and on; when we had don, than cam they al anon, and did the same, eche after her manere, knelinge at ones, and rysinge al in-fere. whan this was don, and she set in her place, the chamberlayn she did unto her cal; and she, goodly coming til her a-pace, of her entent knowing nothing at al, "voyd bak the prees," quod she, "up to the wal; mak larger roum, but look ye do not tary, and tak these billës to the secretary." the chamberlayn did her commaundëment, and cam agayn, as she was bid to do; the secretary there being present, the billës were delivered her also, not only ours, but many other mo. than the lady, with good advyce, agayn anon withal called her chamberlayn. "we wol," quod she, "the first thing that ye do, the secretary, make her come anon with her billës; and thus we wil also, in our presence she rede hem everichon, that we may takë good advyce theron of the ladyes, that been of our counsayl; look this be don, withouten any fayl." the chamberlayn, whan she wiste her entent, anon she did the secretary cal: "let your billës," quod she, "be here present, my lady it wil." "madame," quod she, "i shal." "and in presence she wil ye rede hem al." "with good wil; i am redy," quod she, "at her plesure, whan she commaundeth me." and upon that was mad an ordinaunce, they that cam first, hir billës shuld be red. ful gentelly than sayd perséveraunce, "resoun it wold that they were sonest sped." anon withal, upon a tapet spred, the secretary layde hem doun echon; our billës first she redde hem on by on. the first lady, bering in her devyse _sans que jamais_, thus wroot she in her bil; complayning sore and in ful pitous wyse of promesse mad with faithful hert and wil and so broken, ayenst al maner skil, without desert alwayes on her party; in this mater desyring remedy. her next felawës word was in this wyse, _une sans chaungier_; and thus she did complayn, though she had been guerdoned for her servyce, yet nothing lyke as she that took the payn; wherfore she coude in no wyse her restrayn, but in this cas sewe until her presence, as reson woldë, to have recompence. so furthermore, to speke of other twayn, oon of hem wroot, after her fantasy, _oncques puis lever_; and, for to tel you plain, her complaynt was ful pitous, verely, for, as she sayd, ther was gret reson why; and, as i can remembre this matere, i shal you tel the proces, al in-fere. her bil was mad, complayninge in her gyse, that of her joy, her comfort and gladnesse was no suretee; for in no maner wyse she fond therin no point of stablenesse, now il, now wel, out of al sikernesse; ful humbelly desyringe, of her grace, som remedy to shewe her in this cace. her felawe made her bil, and thus she sayd, in playning wyse; there-as she loved best, whether she were wroth or wel apayd she might nat see, whan [that] she wold faynest; and wroth she was, in very ernest; to tel her word, as ferforth as i wot, _entierment vostre_, right thus she wroot. and upon that she made a greet request with herte and wil, and al that might be don as until her that might redresse it best; for in her mind thus might she finde it sone, the remedy of that, which was her boon; rehersing [that] that she had sayd before, beseching her it might be so no more. and in lyk wyse as they had don before, the gentilwomen of our company put up hir billës; and, for to tel you more, oon of hem wroot _cest sanz dire_, verily; and her matere hool to specify, with-in her bil she put it in wryting; and what it sayd, ye shal have knowleching. it sayd, god wot, and that ful pitously, lyke as she was disposed in her hert, no misfortune that she took grevously; al oon to her it was, the joy and smert, somtyme no thank for al her good desert. other comfort she wanted non coming, and so used, it greved her nothing. desyringe her, and lowly béseching, that she for her wold seke a better way, as she that had ben, al her dayes living, stedfast and trew, and so wil be alway. of her felawe somwhat i shal you say, whos bil was red next after forth, withal; and what it ment rehersen you i shal. _en dieu est_, she wroot in her devyse; and thus she sayd, withouten any fayl, her trouthë might be taken in no wyse lyke as she thought, wherfore she had mervayl; for trouth somtyme was wont to take avayl in every matere; but al that is ago; the more pitè, that it is suffred so. moch more there was, wherof she shuld complayn, but she thought it to greet encomb[e]raunce so moch to wryte; and therfore, in certayn, in god and her she put her affiaunce as in her worde is mad a remembraunce; beseching her that she wolde, in this cace, shewe unto her the favour of her grace. the third, she wroot, rehersing her grevaunce, ye! wot ye what, a pitous thing to here; for, as me thought, she felt gret displesaunce, oon might right wel perceyve it by her chere, and no wonder; it sat her passing nere. yet loth she was to put it in wryting, but nede wol have his cours in every thing. _soyes en sure_, this was her word, certayn, and thus she wroot, but in a litel space; there she lovëd, her labour was in vayn, for he was set al in another place; ful humblely desyring, in that cace, som good comfort, her sorow to appese, that she might livë more at hertes ese. the fourth surely, me thought, she liked wele, as in her porte and in her behaving; and _bien moneste_, as fer as i coud fele, that was her word, til her wel belonging. wherfore to her she prayed, above al thing, ful hertely (to say you in substaunce) that she wold sende her good continuaunce. "ye have rehersed me these billës al, but now, let see somwhat of your entent." "it may so hap, paraventure, ye shal. now i pray you, whyle i am here present, ye shal, pardè, have knowlege, what i ment. but thus i say in trouthe, and make no fable, the case itself is inly lamentable. and wel i wot, that ye wol think the same, lyke as i say, whan ye have herd my bil." "now good, tel on, i hate you, by saynt jame!" "abyde a whyle; it is nat yet my wil. yet must ye wite, by reson and by skil, sith ye know al that hath be don before:--" and thus it sayd, without[en] wordes more. "nothing so leef as deth to come to me for fynal ende of my sorowes and payn; what shulde i more desyre, as semë ye? and ye knewe al aforn it for certayn, i wot ye wolde; and, for to tel you playn, without her help that hath al thing in cure i can nat think that i may longe endure. as for my trouthe, it hath be proved wele, to say the sothe, i can [you] say no more, of ful long tyme, and suffred every dele in pacience, and kepe it al in store; of her goodnesse besechinge her therfore that i might have my thank in suche [a] wyse as my desert deserveth of justyse." whan these billës were rad everichon, this lady took a good advysement; and hem to answere, ech by on and on, she thought it was to moche in her entent; wherfore she yaf hem in commaundëment, in her presence to come, bothe oon and al, to yeve hem there her answer general. what did she than, suppose ye verely? she spak herself, and sayd in this manere, "we have wel seen your billës by and by, and some of hem ful pitous for to here. we wol therfore ye knowe al this in-fere, within short tyme our court of parliment here shal be holde, in our palays present; and in al this wherin ye find you greved, ther shal ye finde an open remedy in suche [a] wyse, as ye shul be releved of al that ye reherce here, thoroughly. as for the date, ye shul know verily, that ye may have a space in your coming; for diligence shal it tel you by wryting." we thanked her in our most humble wyse, our felauship, echon by oon assent, submitting us lowly til her servyse. for, as we thought, we had our travayl spent in suche [a] wyse as we helde us content. than eche of us took other by the sleve, and forth withal, as we shuld take our leve. al sodainly the water sprang anon in my visage, and therwithal i wook:-- "where am i now?" thought i; "al this is gon;" and al amased, up i gan to look. with that, anon i went and made this book, thus simplely rehersing the substaunce, bicause it shuld not out of remembraunce.'-- 'now verily, your dreem is passing good, and worthy to be had in rémembraunce; for, though i stande here as longe as i stood, it shuld to me be non encomb[e]raunce; i took therin so inly greet plesaunce. but tel me now, what ye the book do cal? for i must wite.' 'with right good wil ye shal: as for this book, to say you very right, and of the name to tel the certeyntè, l'assemblÈ de dames, thus it hight; how think ye?' 'that the name is good, pardè!' 'now go, farwel! for they cal after me, my felawes al, and i must after sone; rede wel my dreem; for now my tale is doon.' here endeth the book of assemble de damys. _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ); _compared with_ a. (addit. ); _and_ t. (trin. r. . ). title. th. the assemble of ladies; t. the boke callyd assemble de damys. . a. leef; th. lefe. . th. ceason. . th. corne; gathered. a. in; th. t. _om._ a. sheef; th. shefe. . th. gardyne aboute twayne; noone. . th. mynde dothe fal. . th. fyfthe; a. t. fift. a. t. _om._ the. th. al. . th. t. al; a. _om._ . th. sayd ayen; a. seyde ageyne. . th. aboute. . _i supply_ of. . th. ayen; a. ageyn. . th. lythe. [_henceforward unmarked readings are from_ thynne.] . _all_ me. a. wite; th. t. wete. anone. . se; taryeng. . abyde; ben. . a. wite; th. t. wete. . great. . desyre; processe. . playne. . noone. . one. . a. oure; th. t. _om._ t. a. besynes was; th. besynesses were doone. . _all_ went (_twice_); _read_ wend (= weened). . a. amyddis; th. t. in the myd. aboute. . sothe. a. t. fer; th. ferre. behynde. . ferforthe; beste. . mynde. . forthe. . a. so (_for_ sore). . wrathe. a. stept (_for_ did step). . a. thus; t. th. _om._ -selfe. . gate. . great. . came; a. com. forthe; strayte. . fayre. . _all_ made. t. craftyly; a. th. crafty. . t. dew; th. dewe; a. _om._ . masonrye. a. t. compas; th. compace. . t. steyers. . whele. . potte. a. margoleyne; th. margelayne; t. margelayn. . -selfe; folke. . great. . howe. . a. ne moubliemies; th. ne momblysnesse; t. ne momblynes. a. souenez; t. souenes; th.souenesse. . _all_ penses. . a. no no; th. t. ne (!). wote. . a. beneth; th. t. and benche (!). th. smoth. . hewe. . one. a. who; th. t. _om._ none; knewe. . streames newe and newe. . came. . a. thus; th. t. _om._ . muste. t. nedys; th. nedest; a. nede. a. as; th. t. _om._ . a. musyng; th. t. _om._ . downe. . a. com; th. came. . th. great. . sadde. a. ful ( ); th. t. _om._ . a. com; th.came. _i supply_ there. . gowne. a. embrowded; t. enbrowdyd; th. enbraudred. . a. souenez; th. t. stones. . a. on; th. t. in. a. the; th. t. her. _all_ worde; _read_ word was. . a. _bien loielment_ as i cowde me deuyse. . a. eu_er_y; t. many (_om._ in); th. any. . _all_ was called. . a. than; th. t. _om._ bolde. . agayne; curtesly; tolde. . be. . great. . stande. . a. wit; th. t. wete. a. ful; th. t. right. . hussher (a. t. vssher); certayne. . rodde; beare; playne. . knowe. . a. p_er_teyneng; th. t. apertaynyng. a. vnto; th. t. to. . warne; -one. . shulde. . counsayle; nowe anone. . gone. . shulde. . _i supply_ no. . a. nygh; th. t. not(!). behynde. . knewe. . beare. . muste; blewe. . t. wordys; sleuys. . _so_ a.; th. t. be not abasshed in no maner wyse. . make. . grefe. . displeased. . helpe. a. shul; th. t. shal. eased. . t. (_heading_): diligence guyde. . a. shul; th. t. shal. . a. shul; th. t. shal. a. one (= oon); th. t. _om._ . one; waye. . a. i sey yow for. . great. . porte; playne. . a. t. farewele now have i. . a. quod (_for_ sayd.). . ferre. . wote. . nowe; a. _om._ . one. th. amonges; a. t. among. . a. nat one quod i ey; th. not one than sayd i eygh; t. not oon then sayd i o. . a. they; th. t. i. done. . th. nowe; lyfe. . trouthe. t. a. nat; th. not. . questyons. th. be to large; a. _om._ to. . a. medle; th. meddle. a. is (_in later hand_); th. t. _om_, . vnderstande. . one; lande. . none. . hye. a. shul; th. shal. fynde. . a. fanes; th. phanes; t. vanes. wynde. . a. _om._ and. a. parlours; th. parlers; t. parlors. a. both; th. t. _om._ a. oo; th. t. a. sorte. . disporte. . wote. . a. toke; th. t. take. . th. wol; a. t. wold. . a. this; th. t. the. nowe. . regarde; playne. . a. verray; t. v_er_rey; th. verey. wote. . a. _om._ right. . a. t. ful; th. right. . t. shulde i; th. i shulde; a. shal i. . a. that; th. t. _om._ . a. at; th. t. of. . fynde. . th. t. ye (_for_ it); a. _om._ (_but_ it _seems required_). . _so_ a.; th. t. you tel howe ye shal you. . howe. th. her; a. t. this. . a. t. yow; th. ye. gyue. . th. _om._ that. t. depart; th. parte; a. part. . a. t. soth; th. faythe. great. . wote. . thanke; great. . comforte. a. suche; th. t. _om._ . nowe; bolde; fayle. . a. auise; th. aduyce. th. and good; a. t. _om._ good. . courte. . nowe. . a. that; th. t. _om._ . wolde se howe. a. were; th. t. was. arayde. . worde; sayde. . apayde. . a. for; th. t. and. . trewe; herde. . nowe. . coude. . howe farre. a. that; th. t. the. . a. onward; th. t. outwarde. . _so_ a.; th. t. wolde not we were the last. . a. parted; th. t. departed. th. t. at the; a. _om._ the. . _i supply_ a. t. and an esy. . far. a. onward; th. t. outwarde. se. . nowe. . a. myn hert quod she i gre me wele (_better?_). . a. shul; th. shal. . a. dele; t. dell_e_; th. dyl. . a. was fer gon; th. t. was past farre. . sawe; came. . aboute. . fou_n_de i one. . myne. . meruayle. . a. yis yis; th. yes yes. herde. . t. a. your; th. her. -one. . a. that; th. t. _om._ a. shal. . nowe. . a. this (_for_ the). . wolde; myne. . wolde; gone. a. ful; th. t. ryght. fayne. . certayne. . agayne come; hye. . se. a. how wele; th. t. anone. done. . doute; greatly wote. . t. byn; a. bien; th. be. gone. . a. waraunt; th. t. warne. . a. t. shul; th. shal. -one. . counsayle; anone. . a. ye (_twice_); th. t. you (_twice_). . harme thoughe. a. afore; th. t. before. . a. while; th. whyles. . came; sawe; blewe. . _all_ broke (_for_ brouk). _before_ : th. t. discrecyon purvyour. . wente. . yonge; semynge. . dyscrecyon; lesynge. . abydynge. . chefe. _before_ : th. t. acquayntaunce herbyger. . fayre. . a. herbegyer; th. t. herbygere. . fewe; hyghe degre; lowe. . knowe. _before_ : th. countenaunce porter. . came. . yonge. . came; therate. . anone. . truely; fayre; one. . whiche one; loughe. . knowe; ynoughe. . t. yate; a. th. gate. . fayre. . one. . nowe. . take. a. as; th. t. _om._ whyle. . a. gon; th. go. a. eche on; th. t. euerychone. . _all_ without (!). . came; toke; leaue onone. . a. yow; th. t. ye. nowe. . thanke. . laboure; whiche; mede. . spede. . anone. . a. now; th. t. _om._ . a. eche one; th. t. euerychone. . _so_ a; th. t. but where they are i knowe no certaynte. . wyndowe se. . amonge. . a. now; th. _om._ . stode musynge. . gowne; blewe; wote. . facyon. . worde. . a. the whiche. . a. _o_ (_for_ _a_). a. lettres; th. letters. . a. than ferforth as she com. came. a. vnto; th. to. . t. worde; th. wordes; a. _om._ (_see_ ). fayne. . se. . worde; none; trewe. . ynoughe; blewe. _above_ : th. largesse stewarde; t. belchere marchall. . t. sewerly; th. surely. . fayre. a. right of nobil. . se; reporte. . a. bealchiere; t. belchere; th. belchier. a. the ( ); th. t. _om._ . th. nowe. . a. matiers. mynde. . a. or; th. t. and. behynde. . one; fynde. . playne. , . chamberlayne. _above_ : th. t. remembraunce chamberlayne. . _i supply_ now. trewe. . aferde. a. aferd but lowly til hir. th. sewe; t. sew; a. shewe. . done. . a. me (_for_ ye). . t. a. tell_e_; th. shewe. . a. t. without; th. withoute_n_. _above_ : t. auysen[e]s. . a. yit may nat; th. t. she may not yet be. . a. may do; th. t. doth. thynge. . a. t. met; th. ymet. . matere hole; faynynge. . louynge. . a. gentillesse. . sothe. . a. name; th. t. _om._ . se. . nowe; come stande; stode. . _i supply_ a. sothe. . a. it (_for_ you). certayne. . se; twayne (_twice_). . sothe. a. it (_for_ that). . se comynge. . ben suche folke. a. i dare wele; t. i dar_e_; th. dare i. . a. ful; th. t. _om._ . a. t. yow; th. me (!). . frende. t. vnto; a. th. to. . frenshyp; mysse. . ease; payne. . a. telle me; th. t. take you. . howe. a. whiche (_for_ who). chamberlayne. . worde certaine. . worde. a. t. suster. . stode. . echone. . one (_twice_). . a. forth com; th. t. came forth. _i supply_ lady. . fayre. . counsayle. . th. thynketh; th. a. thynke it. . a. oon; th. t. _om._ . thinge. . howe; cominge. . one. a. avise; th. t. aduyse. . sayde. . t. wyse (_for_ gyse). . folke. a. se; th. t. say. vnpurueyde. . a. wageours; th. t. wagers. amonge; layde. . most goodlest (_read_ goodliest); _see_ . . whiche shulde. a. and whiche of vs al preysed shuld be best. . came. . a. ful; t. th. _om._ a. t. curteys; th. curtyse. . thinke. th. t. of your; a. _om._ of. . a. herbergier; th. herbigere. . a. may; th. t. _om._ lodginge. . chamberlayne. . anone agayne. . _i supply_ that. . sawe; comynge. . great; coude; none. . echone; worde. . worde. . th. t. i ne; a. we (_om._ ne). . anone came. . stode; came. _all_ to. . worde. . a. pray yow; th. t. you pray. secrete. . a. quod i fyve ladies; th. fyue ladyes quod i. , . her. . tolde. . blewe. . a. in; th. t. _om._ . shulde. . soth; wolde; payne. . moche. t. wold (_for nd_ did). . a. ye (_for_ we). . great; tarienge. . longe. a. sue. thynge. . came agayne anone. . -layne. . a. t. we bien quod i now redy; th. we be nowe redy quod i. -one. . a. yow (_for_ ye). certayne. . playne. . besechynge. . trewe meanynge. . wente. . se. . great combraunce (_read_ comberaunce). . stode. . nowe stande. . ease. a. shal i. . amonge; -one. . t. thorow; th. thorugh; a. thurgh. passe. . ease; done. . t. beckenyd; th. beckende. a. there (_for_ where). . -layne. . lefte. . t. salutyd. reason. . th. great; t. gret; a. _om._ (_after_ her). . a. matiers. . wolde. . se; a. so. please. . ease. . a. wite; th. wete; t. wote. . se. . aboute. . a. eche a corn_er_. . a. the; th. t. _om._ made. a. berel; th. burel; t. byralle. . one. . howe. . a. deyd; th. dyed. demophone. . th. tysbe; a. t. thesbe. . slowe; -selfe. . sawe; howe. th. t. a right; a. _om._ a. . slayne. . th. t. was hawes the shene; a. was how enclusene (? _error for_ melusine). . a. vntriewly was; th. t. ful vntrewly. bayne. . howe; complayne. . certayne. . longe. . shone (= shoon). . th. a. vmple; t. vmpylle. . folke shulde. . th. through; a. thurgh (= thorugh; _see_ ). . sawe. _all_ without. fayle. . aparayle. . grounde. . rounde. . coude. . wote. t. thorow; a. thurgh (= thorugh); th. through (_see_ ). . a. til; th. t. to. . farre. . a. wite; th. wete; t. wot. . t. nedylle. . worde. . a. _endurer_; th. t. _endure_. _all_ you. . great; knewe. . anone. . came; alone. . sothely. . spake nothynge. . a. t. hastily; th. hastely. warnynge. . a. roome; th. t. rome. comynge. . sawe. . helde; hande. . sawe. a. goode; th. t. goodly. . great; stande. . -stande. . coude. . (_above_): t. attemperaunce chaunclere. wolde. . wolde. t. sew; a. sue. . a. sauf oo; th. saue a. . sothely. . moche. . a. matiers. alwaye. . forthe. . connynge. . a. dayes of al my. . fayre. a. none sene; th. sene none; t. noon seen. . a. you; th. t. _om._ - . _missing in_ a. . gowne. . coloure blewe. t. good; th. goodly. facyoun. . th. taberde; t. taberd. t. dou_n_; th. adowne. . sorte; vente (t. vent). . t. ermyn; th. armyne. made; purfelynge. . th. great; t. gret. . one worchynge. . th. diamondes; t. dyamond_es_. powderynge. . t. purfyllys; th. purfel (!). . _both_ made lyke (!). . sorte. . enamayle. . a. fresshest; th. t. fayrest. . a. with; th. t. of. great; entayle. . a. withouten; th. t. without. fayle. . worlde. a. t. loke; th. loken. . comynge forthe; estate. . downe. a. eche on; th. t. euerychone. . a. t. vp; th. _om._ wote. . toke; one and one. . done; came; anone. . a. whan; th. t. and wha_n_. done. . -layne. . a. til; t. to; th. vnto. . voyde backe; preace. . make. a. larger; th. t. large. roume; loke. . take; secretarye. . -layne. . came agayne. . -tarye. . onely. . agayne. . -layne. . th. secretarye ye do make come; a. t. secretary make hir come. . maye. a. avise; t. auyse. . counsayle. . loke; done; fayle. . a. the chambrelayn whan she wist; th. t. whan the chamberlayne wyste of. . -tarye. . a. _om._ it. . a. ye rede hem al; t. yow there cal (!); th. ye hem cal (!). . a. gode. . came. th. shuld; a. t. to. t. red; a. th. redde. . rayson. a. t. wold that; th. wyl. spedde. . spredde. . -tarie; downe echone. . t. rad. t. theym (= hem); th. a. _om._ one by one. . bearyng. . a. t. in; th. on. . made. . deserte; partye. . a. matier. th. t. a remedy; a. _om._ a. . a. next felawes word; th. t. next folowing her word. . a. une; th. t. vng. t. saunz chaunger. co_m_playne. . toke; payne. . restrayne. . case. . reason. . twayne. . wrote. . a. oncques; th. vncques; t. vnques. playne. . a. grevous (_for_ pitous). . great reason. . a. and; th. t. _om._ . processe. . made. . comforte. . th. surete; a. suerte; t. seurte. . a. fonde; th. t. sayd (!). . nowe; wele. . th. humbly; a. humble (!); _read_ humbelly. her high grace; a. _om._ high. . a. som remedy to chewe (!) in; th. t. soone to shewe her remedy in. . sayde. . playnynge. . wrothe. wele apayde. . se; wolde. _i supply_ that. . wrothe. . worde; wote. . wrote. . great. . done. . mynde. a. thus; th. t. there. . whiche; boone. . rehersynge. _i supply_ that. . besechynge. . lyke; done. . a. vp; th. t. _om._ . one; wrote. . hole. a. of hir compleynt also the cause why; t. _om. this line_. . writinge. . a. knowlachyng; th. t. knowynge. . wote. . herte. . toke. . one. a. til. a. it; th. t. _om._ smerte. . thanke; deserte. . comforte. a. wayted; th. t. wanted. comynge. . -thynge. . besechynge. . a. t. for her wold; th. wolde for her. . a. al; th. t. _om._ lyuynge. . trewe. a. so; th. t. _om._ . saye. . nexte. a. after; th. t. _om._ forthe. . _diu_; wrote. . a. any; th. t. _om._ fayle. . t. takyn; th. a. take. . meruaile. . auayle. . shulde. . great. _all_ encombraunce. . moche. . th. t. al her; a. _om._ al. . made. . wrote. . thinge. . felte great. . a. _om._ right. . sate; passynge. . lothe; wrytynge. . a. his; t. a; th. _om._ thinge. . a. _se iour_ (for _soyes_). worde certayne. . wrote. a. but; th. t. _om._ . vayne. . th. t. humbly; a. humble (!); _see_ . desyrynge. . comforte; sorowe. . ease. . th. _moneste_; t. a. _monest_. farre; coude. . worde. . t. tell (_for_ say). . wolde. . lete se. . nowe. . a. t. parde have knowlache; th. haue knowlege parde. . selfe. . wote. a. that; th. t. _om._ thinke. . herde. . nowe. _all_ hate (= hote). . a. wite; th. t. wete. reason. . a. knowe al that hath be done afore; th. t. haue knowlege of that was done before. . a. it; th. t. it is (_om._ is). _all_ without. a. any (_for_ wordes). . nothynge. a. lief; t. leef; th. lefe. dethe. . payne. . aforne; certayne. . wote. . helpe; thinge. . thinke. t. i; th. a. it. . _i supply_ you. . longe. . thanke _i supply_ a. . deserte. a. des_er_vith; th. t. serueth. . -one. . a. this lady; th. t. the ladyes. toke. . a. ech; th. t. _om._ . a. yaf; th. t. yaue. t. in; th. a. _om._ . one. . a. hem there hir answere; th. t. hem her answere in. . spake; -selfe. . sene. . a. t. ful; th. _om._ . shorte; courte. . a. t. paleys. . fynde. . _i supply_ a. a. shul; th. t. shal. . t. thoroughly; th. throughly; a. triewly. . shal (_see_ ); knowe. . _so_ th.; a. shal bryng it yow bi; t. shall hyt yow tell by. . moste. . eche one by one. . a. vs (_for st_ we). trauayle. . _i supply_ a. . toke. . forthe; shulde. . sprange anone. . woke. . nowe; gone. . a. al amased vp; th. t. al mased and vp (_read_ and al amased up). loke. . boke. . _all_ simply. . shulde. th. t. be out; a. out (_om._ be). . nowe; dreame. . stode. . shulde; none. _all_ encombraunce. . toke; great. . nowe; boke. . a. wite; th. t. wete. . boke. . _so_ a.; th. t. of the name to tel you in certaynte (t. certayn). . a. la semble; t. lassembyll. . howe thynke. a. the; th. t. _om._ . nowe. . dreme; done. colophon: _in_ t. _only_. * * * * * xxii. a goodly balade. ¶ moder of norture, best beloved of al, and fresshest flour, to whom good thrift god sende. your child, if it list you me so to cal, al be i unable my-self so to pretende, to your discrecioun i recommende myn herte and al, with every circumstaunce, al hoolly to be under your governaunce. most desyre i, and have, and ever shal thing, whiche might your hertës ese amende; have me excused, my power is but smal; natheles, of right ye ought[e] to commende my good[e] will, which fayn wolde entende to do you service; for al my suffisaunce is hoolly to be under your governaunce. _meulx un_: in herte, which never shal apal, ay fresshe and newe, and right glad to dispende my tyme in your servyce, what-so befal, beseching your excéllence to defende my simplenesse, if ignoraunce offende in any wyse; sith that myn affiaunce is hoolly to be under your governaunce. ¶ daisy of light! very ground of comfort! the sonnes doughter ye hight, as i rede; for when he westreth, farwel your disport! by your nature anon, right for pure drede of the rude night, that with his boystous wede of derkness shadoweth our emispere, than closen ye, my lyves lady dere! dawing the day to his kinde resort, phebus your fader, with his stremes rede, adorneth the morow, cónsuming the sort of misty cloudës, that wolde overlede trewe humble hertës with hir mistihede, nere comfort a-dayes, whan eyën clere disclose and sprede my lyves lady dere. [_a stanza lost; lines - ._] ¶ _je vouldray_:--but [the] gret[e] god disposeth and maketh casuel by his providence such thing as mannës frelë wit purposeth; al for the best, if that our conscience nat grucche it, but in humble pacience it receyve; for god saith, without[e] fable, a faithful hertë ever is acceptáble. cautels who useth gladly, gloseth; to eschewe suche it is right high prudence; what ye said[e] onës, [now] myn herte opposeth, "that my wryting japës, in your absence, plesed you moche bet than my presence!" yet can i more, ye be nat excusáble; a faithful hertë ever is acceptáble. quaketh my penne; my spirit supposeth that in my wryting ye finde wol som offence; myn herte welkeneth thus sone, anon it +roseth; now hot, now cold, and eft in [al] fervence; that mis is, is caused of negligence and not of malice; therfor beth merciable; a faithful hertë ever is acceptáble. lenvoy. ¶ forth, complaynt! forth, lakking eloquence, forth, litel lettre, of endyting lame! i have besought my ladies sapience of thy behalfe, to accept in game thyn inabilitee; do thou the same! abyd! have more yet; _je serve jonesse_. now forth; i close thee, in holy venus name; thee shal unclose my hertes governeresse. _finis._ _from_ th. (thynne's ed. ). title. a goodly balade of chaucer. _i note here rejected spellings._ . childe; lust. . selfe. . discrecion; recomende. . holy. . ease. . small. . nathelesse; ought. . good; whiche fayne. . holy. . befall. . sythe. . holy; ben. . grounde; comforte. . disporte. . derkenesse. . resorte. . and phebus (_i omit_ and); father. . morowe; sorte. . wolden. . comforte. . great (_read_ the grete). . suche; mans (_read_ mannes); witte. . grutche. . _read_ receyve it (?); saythe withoute. . sayd; _i supply_ now. . _read_ wryting of iapes (?). . pleased; better (_read_ bet). . _omit_ wol (?); some. . ryseth (!); _read_ roseth. . nowe hotte, nowe colde; efte; _i supply_ al. . mysse. . therfore bethe. . _headed_ lenuoye. forthe; forthe lackyng. . forthe. . inabylite. . iouesse. . nowe; the. . the. * * * * * xxiii. go forth, king. rex sine sapiencia: episcopus sine doctrina. dominus sine consilio: mulier sine castitate. miles sine probitate: iudex sine iusticia. diues sine elemosina: populus sine lege. senex sine religione: seruus sine timore. pauper superbus: adolescens sine obediencia. go forth, king, rule thee by sapience; bishop, be able to minister doctryne; lord, to trew consayl yeve audience; womanheed, to chastitè ever enclyne; knight, let thy dedes worship determyne; be rightwis, jugë, in saving thy name; rich, do almesse, lest thou lese blis with shame. people, obey your king and the lawe; age, be thou ruled by good religioun; trew servant, be dredful, and keep thee under awe, and thou, povre, fy on presumpcioun; inobedience to youth is utter distruccioun; remembre you how god hath set you, lo! and do your part, as ye be ordained to. _from_ th. (thynne, ed. ); _i give rejected spellings_. . forthe; the. . bishoppe. . lorde; trewe counsayle. . womanhede. . lette. . rightous (_read_ rightwis); iuge. . blysse. . relygion. . trewe; dredeful; kepe. . poore; presumption. . distruction. . howe. . parte. * * * * * xxiv. the court of love. with timerous hert and trembling hand of drede, of cunning naked, bare of eloquence, unto the flour of port in womanhede i write, as he that non intelligence of metres hath, ne floures of sentence; sauf that me list my writing to convey, in that i can to please her hygh nobley. the blosmes fresshe of tullius garden soote present thaim not, my mater for to borne: poemes of virgil taken here no rote, ne crafte of galfrid may not here sojorne: why nam i cunning? o well may i morne, for lak of science that i can-not write unto the princes of my life a-right no termes digne unto her excellence, so is she sprong of noble stirpe and high: a world of honour and of reverence there is in her, this wil i testifie. calliope, thou sister wise and sly, and thou, minerva, guyde me with thy grace, that langage rude my mater not deface. thy suger-dropes swete of elicon distill in me, thou gentle muse, i pray; and thee, melpomene, i calle anon, of ignoraunce the mist to chace away; and give me grace so for to write and sey, that she, my lady, of her worthinesse, accepte in gree this litel short tretesse, that is entitled thus, 'the court of love.' and ye that ben metriciens me excuse, i you besech, for venus sake above; for what i mene in this ye need not muse: and if so be my lady it refuse for lak of ornat speche, i wold be wo, that i presume to her to writen so. but myn entent and all my besy cure is for to write this tretesse, as i can, unto my lady, stable, true, and sure, feithfull and kind, sith first that she began me to accept in service as her man: to her be all the plesure of this boke, that, whan her like, she may it rede and loke. when i was yong, at eighteen yere of age, lusty and light, desirous of pleasaunce, approching on full sadde and ripe corage, love arted me to do myn observaunce to his astate, and doon him obeysaunce, commaunding me the court of love to see, a lite beside the mount of citharee, there citherea goddesse was and quene honoured highly for her majestee; and eke her sone, the mighty god, i wene, cupid the blind, that for his dignitee a thousand lovers worship on their knee; there was i bid, on pain of death, t'apere, by mercury, the winged messengere. so than i went by straunge and fer contrees, enquiring ay what costes +to it drew, the court of love: and thiderward, as bees, at last i sey the peple gan pursue: anon, me thought, som wight was there that knew where that the court was holden, ferre or ny, and after thaim ful fast i gan me hy. anone as i theim overtook, i said, 'hail, frendes! whider purpose ye to wend?' 'forsooth,' quod oon that answered lich a maid, 'to loves court now go we, gentill frend.' 'where is that place,' quod i, 'my felowe hend?' 'at citheron, sir,' seid he, 'without dowte, the king of love, and all his noble rowte, dwelling within a castell ryally.' so than apace i jorned forth among, and as he seid, so fond i there truly. for i beheld the towres high and strong, and high pinácles, large of hight and long, with plate of gold bespred on every side, and presious stones, the stone-werk for to hide. no saphir ind, no rubè riche of price, there lakked than, nor emeraud so grene, baleis turkeis, ne thing to my devise, that may the castell maken for to shene: all was as bright as sterres in winter been; and phebus shoon, to make his pees agayn, for trespas doon to high estates tweyn, venus and mars, the god and goddesse clere, whan he theim found in armes cheined fast: venus was then full sad of herte and chere. but phebus bemes, streight as is the mast, upon the castell ginneth he to cast, to plese the lady, princesse of that place, in signe he loketh aftir loves grace. for there nis god in heven or helle, y-wis, but he hath ben right soget unto love: jove, pluto, or what-so-ever he is, ne creature in erth, or yet above; of thise the révers may no wight approve. but furthermore, the castell to descry, yet saw i never non so large and high. for unto heven it streccheth, i suppose, within and out depeynted wonderly, with many a thousand daisy, rede as rose, and white also, this saw i verily: but what tho daises might do signify, can i not tell, sauf that the quenes flour alceste it was that kept there her sojour; which under venus lady was and quene, and admete king and soverain of that place, to whom obeyed the ladies gode ninetene, with many a thowsand other, bright of face. and yong men fele came forth with lusty pace, and aged eke, their homage to dispose; but what thay were, i coud not well disclose. yet ner and ner furth in i gan me dresse into an halle of noble apparaile, with arras spred and cloth of gold, i gesse, and other silk of esier availe: under the cloth of their estate, saunz faile, the king and quene ther sat, as i beheld: it passed joye of helisee the feld. there saintes have their comming and resort, to seen the king so ryally beseyn, in purple clad, and eke the quene in sort: and on their hedes saw i crownes tweyn, with stones fret, so that it was no payn, withouten mete and drink, to stand and see the kinges honour and the ryaltee. and for to trete of states with the king, that been of councell chief, and with the quene, the king had daunger ner to him standing, the quene of love, disdain, and that was seen: for by the feith i shall to god, i wene, was never straunger [non] in her degree than was the quene in casting of her ee. and as i stood perceiving her apart, and eke the bemes shyning of her yen, me thought thay were shapen lich a dart, sherp and persing, smale, and streight as lyne. and all her here, it shoon as gold so fyne, dishevel, crisp, down hinging at her bak a yarde in length: and soothly than i spak:-- 'o bright regina, who made thee so fair? who made thy colour vermelet and white? where woneth that god? how fer above the eyr? greet was his craft, and greet was his delyt. now marvel i nothing that ye do hight the quene of love, and occupy the place of citharee: now, sweet lady, thy grace.' in mewet spak i, so that nought astert, by no condicion, word that might be herd; b[ut] in myn inward thought i gan advert, and oft i seid, 'my wit is dulle and hard:' for with her bewtee, thus, god wot, i ferd as doth the man y-ravisshed with sight, when i beheld her cristall yen so bright, no respect having what was best to doon; till right anon, beholding here and there, i spied a frend of myne, and that full soon, a gentilwoman, was the chamberer unto the quene, that hote, as ye shall here, philobone, that lovëd all her life: whan she me sey, she led me furth as blyfe; and me demaunded how and in what wise i thider com, and what myne erand was? 'to seen the court,' quod i, 'and all the guyse; and eke to sue for pardon and for grace, and mercy ask for all my greet trespace, that i non erst com to the court of love: foryeve me this, ye goddes all above!' 'that is well seid,' quod philobone, 'in-dede: but were ye not assomoned to apere by mercury? for that is all my drede.' 'yes, gentil fair,' quod i, 'now am i here; ye, yit what tho, though that be true, my dere?' 'of your free will ye shuld have come unsent: for ye did not, i deme ye will be shent. for ye that reign in youth and lustinesse, pampired with ese, and +jolif in your age, your dewtee is, as fer as i can gesse, to loves court to dressen your viage, as sone as nature maketh you so sage, that ye may know a woman from a swan, or whan your foot is growen half a span. but sith that ye, by wilful necligence, this eighteen yere have kept yourself at large, the gretter is your trespace and offence, and in your nek ye moot bere all the charge: for better were ye ben withouten barge, amiddë see, in tempest and in rain, than byden here, receiving woo and pain, that ordeined is for such as thaim absent fro loves court by yeres long and fele. i ley my lyf ye shall full soon repent; for love will reyve your colour, lust, and hele: eke ye must bait on many an hevy mele: no force, y-wis, i stired you long agoon to draw to court,' quod litell philobon. 'ye shall well see how rough and angry face the king of love will shew, when ye him see; by myn advyse kneel down and ask him grace, eschewing perell and adversitee; for well i wot it wol non other be, comfort is non, ne counsel to your ese; why will ye than the king of love displese?' 'o mercy, god,' quod ich, 'i me repent, caitif and wrecche in hert, in wille, and thought! and aftir this shall be myne hole entent to serve and plese, how dere that love be bought: yit, sith i have myn own penaunce y-sought, with humble spirit shall i it receive, though that the king of love my life bereyve. and though that fervent loves qualitè in me did never worch truly, yit i with all obeisaunce and humilitè, and benign hert, shall serve him til i dye: and he that lord of +might is, grete and highe, right as him list me chastice and correct, and punish me, with trespace thus enfect.' thise wordes seid, she caught me by the lap, and led me furth intill a temple round, large and wyde: and, as my blessed hap and good avénture was, right sone i found a tabernacle reised from the ground, where venus sat, and cupid by her syde; yet half for drede i gan my visage hyde. and eft again i loked and beheld, seeing full sundry peple in the place, and mister folk, and som that might not weld their limmes well, me thought a wonder cas; the temple shoon with windows all of glas, bright as the day, with many a fair image; and there i sey the fresh quene of cartage, dido, that brent her bewtee for the love of fals eneas; and the weymenting of hir, anelida, true as turtill-dove, to arcite fals: and there was in peinting of many a prince, and many a doughty king, whose marterdom was shewed about the walles; and how that fele for love had suffered falles. but sore i was abasshed and astonied of all tho folk that there were in that tyde; and than i asked where thay had [y-]woned: 'in dyvers courtes,' quod she, 'here besyde.' in sondry clothing, mantil-wyse full wyde, they were arrayed, and did their sacrifice unto the god and goddesse in their guyse. '+lo! yonder folk,' quod she, 'that knele in blew, they were the colour ay, and ever shall, in sign they were, and ever will be trew withouten chaunge: and sothly, yonder all that ben in blak, with morning cry and call unto the goddes, for their loves been som fer, som dede, som all to sherpe and kene.' 'ye, than,' quod i, 'what doon thise prestes here, nonnes and hermits, freres, and all thoo that sit in white, in russet, and in grene?' 'for-soth,' quod she, 'they wailen of their wo.' 'o mercy, lord! may thay so come and go freely to court, and have such libertee?' 'ye, men of ech condicion and degree, and women eke: for truly, there is non excepcion mad, ne never was ne may: this court is ope and free for everichon, the king of love he will nat say thaim nay: he taketh all, in poore or riche array, that meekly sewe unto his excellence with all their herte and all their reverence.' and, walking thus about with philobone, i sey where cam a messenger in hy streight from the king, which let commaund anon, through-out the court to make an ho and cry: 'a! new-come folk, abyde! and wot ye why? the kinges lust is for to seen you soon: com ner, let see! his will mot need be doon.' than gan i me present to-fore the king, trembling for fere, with visage pale of hew, and many a lover with me was kneling, abasshed sore, till unto tyme thay knew the sentence yeve of his entent full trew: and at the last the king hath me behold with stern visage, and seid, 'what doth this old, thus fer y-stope in yeres, come so late unto the court?' 'for-soth, my liege,' quod i, 'an hundred tyme i have ben at the gate afore this tyme, yit coud i never espy of myn acqueyntaunce any with mine y; and shamefastnes away me gan to chace; but now i me submit unto your grace.' 'well! all is perdoned, with condicion that thou be trew from hensforth to thy might, and serven love in thyn entencion: swere this, and than, as fer as it is right, thou shalt have grace here in my quenes sight.' 'yis, by the feith i ow your crown, i swere, though deth therfore me thirlith with his spere!' and whan the king had seen us everichoon, he let commaunde an officer in hy to take our feith, and shew us, oon by oon, the statuts of the court full besily. anon the book was leid before their y, to rede and see what thing we must observe in loves court, till that we dye and sterve. and, for that i was lettred, there i red the statuts hole of loves court and hall: the _first_ statut that on the boke was spred, was, to be true in thought and dedes all unto the king of love, the lord ryall; and to the quene, as feithful and as kind, as i coud think with herte, and will and mind. the _secund_ statut, secretly to kepe councell of love, nat blowing every-where all that i know, and let it sink +or flete; it may not sown in every wightes ere: exyling slaunder ay for dred and fere, and to my lady, which i love and serve, be true and kind, her grace for to deserve. the _thrid_ statut was clerely write also, withouten chaunge to live and dye the same, non other love to take, for wele ne wo, for brind delyt, for ernest nor for game: without repent, for laughing or for grame, to byden still in full perseveraunce: al this was hole the kinges ordinaunce. the _fourth_ statut, to purchace ever to here, and stiren folk to love, and beten fyr on venus awter, here about and there, and preche to thaim of love and hot desyr, and tell how love will quyten well their hire: this must be kept; and loth me to displese: if love be wroth, passe forby is an ese. the _fifth_ statut, not to be daungerous, if that a thought wold reyve me of my slepe: nor of a sight to be over squeymous; and so, verily, this statut was to kepe, to turne and walowe in my bed and wepe, when that my lady, of her crueltè, wold from her herte exylen all pitè. the _sixt_ statut, it was for me to use, alone to wander, voide of company, and on my ladys bewtee for to muse, and to think [it] no force to live or dye; and eft again to think the remedy, how to her grace i might anon attain, and tell my wo unto my souverain. the _seventh_ statut was, to be pacient, whether my lady joyfull were or wroth; for wordes glad or hevy, diligent, wheder that she me helden lefe or loth: and hereupon i put was to myn oth, her for to serve, and lowly to obey, shewing my chere, ye, twenty sith a-day. the _eighth_ statut, to my rememb[e]raunce, was, to speke, and pray my lady dere, with hourly labour and gret attendaunce, me for to love with all her herte entere, and me desyre, and make me joyfull chere, right as she is, surmounting every faire, of bewtie well, and gentill debonaire. the _ninth_ statut, with lettres writ of gold, this was the sentence, how that i and all shuld ever dred to be to over-bold her to displese; and truly, so i shall; but ben content for thing[es] that may falle, and meekly take her chastisement and yerd, and to offende her ever ben aferd. the _tenth_ statut was, egally discern by-twene thy lady and thyn abilitee, and think, thy-self art never like to yern, by right, her mercy, nor of equitee, but of her grace and womanly pitee: for though thy-self be noble in thy strene, a thowsand-fold more nobill is thy quene, thy lyves lady, and thy souverayn, that hath thyn herte all hole in governaunce. thou mayst no wyse hit taken to disdayn, to put thee humbly at her ordinaunce, and give her free the rein of her plesaunce; for libertee is thing that women loke, and truly, els the mater is a-croke. the _eleventh_ statut, thy signes for to +con with y and finger, and with smyles soft, and low to cough, and alway for to shon, for dred of spyes, for to winken oft: but secretly to bring a sigh a-loft, and eke beware of over-moch resort; for that, paraventure, spilleth al thy sport. the _twelfth_ statut remember to observe: for al the pain thow hast for love and wo, all is to lite her mercy to deserve, thow must then think, where-ever thou ryde or go; and mortall woundes suffer thow also, all for her sake, and thinke it well beset upon thy love, for it may be no bet. the _thirteenth_ statut, whylom is to thinke, what thing may best thy lady lyke and plese, and in thyn hertes botom let it sinke: som thing devise, and take [it] for thyn ese, and send it her, that may her herte +apese: some hert, or ring, or lettre, or device, or precious stone; but spare not for no price. the _fourteenth_ statut eke thou shalt assay fermly to kepe the most part of thy lyfe: wish that thy lady in thyne armes lay, and nightly dreme, thow hast thy hertes wyfe swetely in armes, straining her as blyfe: and whan thou seest it is but fantasy, see that thow sing not over merily, for to moche joye hath oft a wofull end. it longith eke, this statut for to hold, to deme thy lady evermore thy frend, and think thyself in no wyse a cocold. in every thing she doth but as she shold: construe the best, beleve no tales newe, for many a lie is told, that semeth full trewe. but think that she, so bounteous and fair, coud not be fals: imagine this algate; and think that tonges wikke wold her appair, slaundering her name and worshipfull estat, and lovers true to setten at debat: and though thow seest a faut right at thyne y, excuse it blyve, and glose it pretily. the _fifteenth_ statut, use to swere and stare, and counterfet a lesing hardely, to save thy ladys honour every-where, and put thyself to fight [for her] boldly: sey she is good, virtuous, and gostly, clere of entent, and herte, and thought and wille; and argue not, for reson ne for skille, agayn thy ladys plesir ne entent, for love wil not be countrepleted, indede: sey as she seith, than shalt thou not be shent, the crow is whyte; ye, truly, so i rede: and ay what thing that she thee will forbede, eschew all that, and give her sovereintee, her appetyt folow in all degree. the _sixteenth_ statut, kepe it if thow may:-- seven sith at night thy lady for to plese, and seven at midnight, seven at morow-day; and drink a cawdell erly for thyn ese. do this, and kepe thyn hede from all disese, and win the garland here of lovers all, that ever come in court, or ever shall. ful few, think i, this statut hold and kepe; but truly, this my reson giveth me fele, that som lovers shuld rather fall aslepe, than take on hand to plese so oft and wele. there lay non oth to this statut a-dele, but kepe who might, as gave him his corage: now get this garland, lusty folk of age. now win who may, ye lusty folk of youth, this garland fresh, of floures rede and whyte, purpill and blewe, and colours +ful uncouth, and i shal croune him king of all delyt! in al the court there was not, to my sight, a lover trew, that he ne was adred, when he expresse hath herd the statut red. the _seventeenth_ statut, whan age approchith on, and lust is leid, and all the fire is queint, as freshly than thou shalt begin to fon, and dote in love, and all her image paint in rémembraunce, til thou begin to faint, +as in the first seson thyn hert began: and her desire, though thou ne may ne can perform thy living actuell, and lust; regester this in thy rememb[e]raunce: eke when thou mayst not kepe thy thing from rust, +yit speke and talk of plesaunt daliaunce; for that shall make thyn hert rejoise and daunce. and when thou mayst no more the game assay, the statut +bit thee pray for hem that may. the _eighteenth_ statut, hoolly to commend, to plese thy lady, is, that thou eschewe with sluttishness thy-self for to offend; be jolif, fresh, and fete, with thinges newe, courtly with maner, this is all thy due, gentill of port, and loving clenlinesse; this is the thing that lyketh thy maistresse. and not to wander lich a dulled ass, ragged and torn, disgysed in array, ribaud in speche, or out of mesure pass, thy bound exceding; think on this alway: for women +been of tender hertes ay, and lightly set their plesire in a place; whan they misthink, they lightly let it passe. the _nineteenth_ statut, mete and drink forgete: ech other day, see that thou fast for love, for in the court they live withouten mete, sauf such as cometh from venus all above; they take non heed, in pain of greet reprove, of mete and drink, for that is all in vain; only they live by sight of their soverain. the _twentieth_ statut, last of everichoon, enroll it in thyn hertes privitee; to wring and wail, to turn, and sigh and grone, when that thy lady absent is from thee; and eke renew the wordes [all] that she bitween you twain hath seid, and all the chere that thee hath mad thy lyves lady dere. and see thyn herte in quiet ne in rest sojorn, to tyme thou seen thy lady eft; but wher she won by south, or est, or west, with all thy force, now see it be not left: be diligent, till tyme thy lyfe be reft, in that thou mayst, thy lady for to see; this statut was of old antiquitee. an officer of high auctoritee, cleped rigour, made us swere anon: he nas corrupt with parcialitee, favour, prayer, ne gold that cherely shoon; 'ye shall,' quod he, 'now sweren here echoon, yong and old, to kepe, in that +ye may, the statuts truly, all, aftir this day.' o god, thought i, hard is to make this oth! but to my pouer shall i thaim observe; in all this world nas mater half so loth, to swere for all; for though my body sterve, i have no might the hole for to reserve. but herkin now the cace how it befell: after my oth was mad, the trouth to tell, i turned leves, loking on this boke, where other statuts were of women shene; and right furthwith rigour on me gan loke full angrily, and seid unto the quene i traitour was, and charged me let been: 'there may no man,' quod he, 'the statut[s] know, that long to woman, by degree ne low. in secret wyse thay kepten been full close, they sowne echon to libertie, my frend; plesaunt thay be, and to their own purpose; there wot no wight of thaim, but god and fend, ne naught shall wit, unto the worldes end. the quene hath yeve me charge, in pain to dye, never to rede ne seen thaim with myn ye. for men shall not so nere of councell ben, with womanhode, ne knowen of her gyse, ne what they think, ne of their wit th'engyn; i me report to salamon the wyse, and mighty sampson, which begyled thryes with dalida was: he wot that, in a throw, there may no man statut of women knowe. for it paravénture may right so befall, that they be bound by nature to disceive, and spinne, and wepe, and sugre strewe on gall, the hert of man to ravissh and to reyve, and whet their tong as sharp as swerd or gleyve: it may betyde, this is their ordinaunce; so must they lowly doon the observaunce, and kepe the statut yeven thaim of kind, or such as love hath yeve hem in their lyfe. men may not wete why turneth every wind, nor waxen wyse, nor ben inquisityf to know secret of maid, widow, or wyfe; for they their statutes have to thaim reserved, and never man to know thaim hath deserved. now dress you furth, the god of love you gyde!' quod rigour than, 'and seek the temple bright of cither[e]a, goddess here besyde; beseche her, by [the] influence and might of al her vertue, you to teche a-right, how for to serve your ladies, and to plese, ye that ben sped, and set your hert in ese. and ye that ben unpurveyed, +pray her eke comfort you soon with grace and destinee, that ye may set your hert there ye may lyke, in suche a place, that it to love may be honour and worship, and felicitee to you for ay. now goth, by one assent.' 'graunt mercy, sir!' quod we, and furth we went devoutly, soft and esy pace, to see venus the goddes image, all of gold: and there we founde a thousand on their knee, sum freshe and feire, som dedely to behold, in sondry mantils new, and som were old, som painted were with flames rede as fire, outward to shew their inward hoot desire: with dolefull chere, full fele in their complaint cried 'lady venus, rewe upon our sore! receive our billes, with teres all bedreint; we may not wepe, there is no more in store; but wo and pain us frettith more and more: thou +blisful planet, lovers sterre so shene, have rowth on us, that sigh and carefull been; and ponish, lady, grevously, we pray, the false untrew with counterfet plesaunce, that made their oth, be trew to live or dey, with chere assured, and with countenaunce; and falsly now thay foten loves daunce, barein of rewth, untrue of that they seid, now that their lust and plesire is alleyd.' yet eft again, a thousand milion, rejoysing, love, leding their life in blis: they seid:--'venus, redresse of all division, goddes eterne, thy name +y-heried is! by loves bond is knit all thing, y-wis, best unto best, the erth to water wan, bird unto bird, and woman unto man; this is the lyfe of joye that we ben in, resembling lyfe of hevenly paradyse; love is exyler ay of vice and sin; love maketh hertes lusty to devyse; honour and grace have thay, in every wyse, that been to loves law obedient; love makith folk benigne and diligent; ay stering theim to drede[n] vice and shame: in their degree it maketh thaim honorable; and swete it is of love [to] bere the name, so that his love be feithfull, true, and stable: love prunith him, to semen amiable; love hath no faut, there it is exercysed, but sole with theim that have all love dispised. honour to thee, celestiall and clere goddes of love, and to thy celsitude, that yevest us light so fer down from thy spere, persing our hertes with thy pulcritude! comparison non of similitude may to thy grace be mad in no degree, that hast us set with love in unitee. gret cause have we to praise thy name and thee, for [that] through thee we live in joye and blisse. blessed be thou, most souverain to see! thy holy court of gladness may not misse: a thousand sith we may rejoise in this, that we ben thyn with harte and all y-fere, enflamed with thy grace, and hevinly fere.' musing of tho that spakin in this wyse, i me bethought in my rememb[e]raunce myne orison right goodly to devyse, and plesauntly, with hartes obeisaunce, beseech the goddes voiden my grevaunce; for i loved eke, sauf that i wist nat where; yet down i set, and seid as ye shall here. 'fairest of all that ever were or be! +lucerne and light to pensif crëature! myn hole affiaunce, and my lady free, my goddes bright, my fortune and my ure, i yeve and yeld my hart to thee full sure, humbly beseching, lady, of thy grace me to bestowe into som blessed place. and here i vow me feithfull, true, and kind, without offence of mutabilitee, humbly to serve, whyl i have wit and mind, myn hole affiaunce, and my lady free! in thilkë place, there ye me sign to be: and, sith this thing of newe is yeve me, ay to love and serve, needly must i obey. be merciable with thy fire of grace, and fix myne hert there bewtie is and routh, for hote i love, determine in no place, sauf only this, by god and by my trouth, trowbled i was with slomber, slepe, and slouth this other night, and in a visioun i sey a woman romen up and down, of mene stature, and seemly to behold, lusty and fresh, demure of countynaunce, yong and wel shap, with here [that] shoon as gold, with yen as cristall, farced with plesaunce; and she gan stir myne harte a lite to daunce; but sodenly she vanissh gan right there: thus i may sey, i love and wot not where. for what she is, ne her dwelling i not, and yet i fele that love distraineth me: might ich her know, that wold i fain, god wot, serve and obey with all benignitee. and if that other be my destinee, so that no wyse i shall her never see, than graunt me her that best may lyken me, with glad rejoyse to live in parfit hele, devoide of wrath, repent, or variaunce; and able me to do that may be wele unto my lady, with hertes by plesaunce: and, mighty goddes! through thy purviaunce my wit, my thought, my lust and love so gyde, that to thyne honour i may me provyde to set myne herte in place there i may lyke, and gladly serve with all affeccioun. gret is the pain which at myn hert doth stik. till i be sped by thyn eleccioun: help, lady goddes! that possessioun i might of her have, that in all my lyfe i clepen shall my quene and hertes wife. and in the court of love to dwell for ay my wille it is, and don thee sacrifice: daily with diane eke to fight and fray, and holden werre, as might well me suffice: that goddes chaste i kepen in no wyse to serve; a fig for all her chastitee! her lawe is for religiositee.' and thus gan finish preyer, lawde, and preise, which that i yove to venus on my knee, and in myne hert to ponder and to peise, i gave anon hir image fressh bewtie; 'heil to that figure sweet! and heil to thee, cupide,' quod i, and rose and yede my way; and in the temple as i yede i sey a shryne sormownting all in stones riche, of which the force was plesaunce to myn y, with diamant or saphire; never liche i have non seyn, ne wrought so wonderly. so whan i met with philobone, in hy i gan demaund, 'who[s] is this sepulture?' 'forsoth,' quod she, 'a tender creature is shryned there, and pitè is her name. she saw an egle wreke him on a fly, and pluk his wing, and eke him, in his game, and tender herte of that hath made her dy: eke she wold wepe, and morn right pitously to seen a lover suffre gret destresse. in all the court nas non that, as i gesse, that coude a lover +half so well availe, ne of his wo the torment or the rage +aslaken, for he was sure, withouten faile, that of his grief she coud the hete aswage. in sted of pitè, spedeth hot corage the maters all of court, now she is dede; i me report in this to womanhede. for weile and wepe, and crye, and speke, and pray,-- women wold not have pitè on thy plaint; ne by that mene to ese thyn hart convey, but thee receiven for their own talent: and sey, that pitè causith thee, in consent of rewth, to take thy service and thy pain in that thow mayst, to plese thy souverain. but this is councell, keep it secretly;' quod she, 'i nold, for all the world abowt, the quene of love it wist; and wit ye why? for if by me this matter springen out, in court no lenger shuld i, owt of dowt, dwellen, but shame in all my life endry: now kepe it close,' quod she, 'this hardely. well, all is well! now shall ye seen,' she seid, 'the feirest lady under son that is: come on with me, demene you liche a maid, with shamefast dred, for ye shall spede, y-wis, with her that is the mir[th] and joy and blis: but sumwhat straunge and sad of her demene she is, be ware your countenaunce be sene, nor over light, ne recheless, ne to bold, ne malapert, ne rinning with your tong; for she will you abeisen and behold, and you demaund, why ye were hens so long out of this court, without resort among: and rosiall her name is hote aright, whose harte +as yet [is] yeven to no wight. and ye also ben, as i understond, with love but light avaunced, by your word; might ye, by hap, your fredom maken bond, and fall in grace with her, and wele accord, well might ye thank the god of love and lord; for she that ye sawe in your dreme appere, to love suche one, what are +ye than the nere? yit wot ye what? as my rememb[e]raunce me yevith now, ye fayn, where that ye sey that ye with love had never acqueintaunce, sauf in your dreme right late this other day: why, yis, parde! my life, that durst i lay, that ye were caught upon an heth, when i saw you complain, and sigh full pitously; within an erber, and a garden fair with floures growe, and herbes vertuous, of which the savour swete was and the eyr, there were your-self full hoot and amorous: y-wis, ye ben to nice and daungerous; a! wold ye now repent, and love som new?'-- 'nay, by my trouth,' i seid, 'i never knew the goodly wight, whos i shall be for ay: guyde me the lord that love hath made and me.' but furth we went in-till a chambre gay, there was rosiall, womanly to see, whose stremes sotell-persing of her ee myn hart gan thrill for bewtie in the stound: 'alas,' quod i, 'who hath me yeve this wound?' and than i dred to speke, till at the last i gret the lady reverently and wele, whan that my sigh was gon and over-past; and down on knees full humbly gan i knele, beseching her my fervent wo to kele, for there i took full purpose in my mind, unto her grace my painfull hart to bind. for if i shall all fully her discryve, her hede was round, by compace of nature, her here as gold,--she passed all on-lyve,-- and lily forhede had this crëature, with lovelich browes, flawe, of colour pure, bytwene the which was mene disseveraunce from every brow, to shewe[n] a distaunce. her nose directed streight, and even as lyne, with fourm and shap therto convenient, in which the goddes milk-whyt path doth shine; and eke her yen ben bright and orient as is the smaragde, unto my juggement, or yet thise sterres hevenly, smale and bright; her visage is of lovely rede and whyte. her mouth is short, and shit in litell space, flaming somdele, not over-rede, i mene, with pregnant lippes, and thik to kiss, percas; (for lippes thin, not fat, but ever lene, they serve of naught, they be not worth a bene; for if the basse ben full, there is delyt, maximian truly thus doth he wryte.) but to my purpose:--i sey, whyte as snow ben all her teeth, and in order thay stond of oon stature; and eke hir breth, i trow, surmounteth alle odours that ever i fond in sweetnes; and her body, face, and hond ben sharply slender, so that from the hede unto the fote, all is but womanhede. i hold my pees of other thinges hid:-- here shall my soul, and not my tong, bewray:-- but how she was arrayed, if ye me bid, that shall i well discover you and say: a bend of gold and silk, full fressh and gay; with here in tresse[s], browdered full well, right smothly kept, and shyning every-del. about her nek a flour of fressh devyse with rubies set, that lusty were to sene; and she in gown was, light and somer-wyse, shapen full wele, the colour was of grene, with aureat seint about her sydes clene, with dyvers stones, precious and riche:-- thus was she rayed, yet saugh i never her liche. for if that jove had [but] this lady seyn, tho calixto ne [yet] alcmenia, thay never hadden in his armes leyn; ne he had loved the faire europa; ye, ne yet dane ne antiopa! for al their bewtie stood in rosiall; she semed lich a thing celestiall in bowntè, favor, port, and semliness, plesaunt of figure, mirrour of delyt, gracious to sene, and rote of gentilness, with angel visage, lusty rede and white: there was not lak, sauf daunger had a lite this goodly fressh in rule and governaunce; and somdel straunge she was, for her plesaunce. and truly sone i took my leve and went, whan she had me enquyred what i was; for more and more impressen gan the dent of loves dart, whyl i beheld her face; and eft again i com to seken grace, and up i put my bill, with sentence clere that folwith aftir; rede and ye shall here. 'o ye [the] fressh, of [all] bewtie the rote, that nature hath fourmed so wele and made princesse and quene! and ye that may do bote of all my langour with your wordes glad! ye wounded me, ye made me wo-bestad; of grace redress my mortall +grief, as ye of all myne +harm the verrey causer be. now am i caught, and unwar sodenly, with persant stremes of your yën clere, subject to ben, and serven you meekly, and all your man, y-wis, my lady dere, abiding grace, of which i you requere, that merciles ye cause me not to sterve; but guerdon me, liche as i may deserve. for, by my troth, the dayes of my breth i am and will be youre in wille and hert, pacient and meek, for you to suffre deth if it require; now rewe upon my smert; and this i swere, i never shall out-stert from loves court for none adversitee, so ye wold rewe on my distresse and me. my destinee, +my fate, and ure i bliss, that have me set to ben obedient only to you, the flour of all, y-wis: i trust to venus never to repent; for ever redy, glad, and diligent ye shall me finde in service to your grace, till deth my lyfe out of my body race. humble unto your excellence so digne, enforcing ay my wittes and delyt to serve and plese with glad herte and benigne, and ben as troilus, [old] troyes knight, or antony for cleopatre bright, and never you me thinkes to reney: this shall i kepe unto myne ending-day. enprent my speche in your memorial sadly, my princess, salve of all my sore! and think that, for i wold becomen thrall, and ben your own, as i have seyd before, ye must of pity cherissh more and more your man, and tender aftir his desert, and yive him corage for to ben expert. for where that oon hath set his herte on fire, and findeth nether refut ne plesaunce, ne word of comfort, deth will quyte his hire. allas! that there is none allegeaunce of all their wo! allas, the gret grevaunce to love unloved! but ye, my lady dere, in other wyse may govern this matere.' 'truly, gramercy, frend, of your good will, and of your profer in your humble wyse! but for your service, take and kepe it still. and where ye say, i ought you well cheryse, and of your gref the remedy devyse, i know not why: i nam acqueinted well with you, ne wot not sothly where ye dwell.' 'in art of love +i wryte, and songes make, that may be song in honour of the king and quene of love; and than i undertake, he that is sad shall than full mery sing. and daunger[o]us not ben in every thing beseche i you, but seen my will and rede, and let your aunswer put me out of drede.' 'what is your name? reherse it here, i pray, of whens and where, of what condicion that ye ben of? let see, com of and say! fain wold i know your disposicion:-- ye have put on your old entencion; but what ye mene to servë me i noot, sauf that ye say ye love me wonder hoot.' 'my name? alas, my hert, why [make it straunge?] philogenet i cald am fer and nere, of cambrige clerk, that never think to chaunge fro you that with your hevenly stremes clere ravissh myne herte and gost and all in-fere: this is the first, i write my bill for grace, me think, i see som mercy in your face. and what i mene, by god that al hath wrought, my bill, that maketh finall mencion, that ye ben, lady, in myne inward thought of all myne hert without offencion, that i best love, and have, sith i begon to draw to court. lo, than! what might i say? i yeld me here, [lo!] unto your nobley. and if that i offend, or wilfully by pompe of hart your precept disobey, or doon again your will unskillfully, or greven you, for ernest or for play, correct ye me right sharply than, i pray, as it is sene unto your womanhede, and rewe on me, or ellis i nam but dede.' 'nay, god forbede to feffe you so with grace, and for a worde of sugred eloquence, to have compassion in so litell space! than were it tyme that som of us were hens! ye shall not find in me suche insolence. ay? what is this? may ye not suffer sight? how may ye loke upon the candill-light, that clere[r] is and hotter than myn y? and yet ye seid, the bemes perse and frete:-- how shall ye than the candel-[l]ight endry? for wel wot ye, that hath the sharper hete. and there ye bid me you correct and bete, if ye offend,--nay, that may not be doon: there come but few that speden here so soon. withdraw your y, withdraw from presens eke: hurt not yourself, through foly, with a loke; i wold be sory so to make you seke: a woman shuld be ware eke whom she toke: ye beth a clark:--go serchen [in] my boke, if any women ben so light to win: nay, byde a whyl, though ye were all my kin. so soon ye may not win myne harte, in trouth the gyse of court will seen your stedfastness, and as ye don, to have upon you rewth. your own desert, and lowly gentilness, that will reward you joy for heviness; and though ye waxen pale, and grene and dede, ye must it use a while, withouten drede, and it accept, and grucchen in no wyse; but where as ye me hastily desyre to been to love, me think, ye be not wyse. cese of your language! cese, i you requyre! for he that hath this twenty yere ben here may not obtayn; than marveile i that ye be now so bold, of love to trete with me.' 'ah! mercy, hart, my lady and my love, my rightwyse princesse and my lyves guyde! now may i playn to venus all above, that rewthles ye me +give these woundes wyde! what have i don? why may it not betyde, that for my trouth i may received be? alas! your daunger and your crueltè! in wofull hour i got was, welaway! in wofull hour [y-]fostred and y-fed, in wofull hour y-born, that i ne may my supplicacion swetely have y-sped! the frosty grave and cold must be my bedde, without ye list your grace and mercy shewe, deth with his axe so faste on me doth hewe. so greet disese and in so litell whyle, so litell joy, that felte i never yet; and at my wo fortune ginneth to smyle, that never erst i felt so harde a fit: confounded ben my spirits and my wit, till that my lady take me to her cure, which i love best of erthely crëature. but that i lyke, that may i not com by; of that i playn, that have i habondaunce; sorrow and thought, thay sit me wounder ny; me is withhold that might be my plesaunce: yet turne again, my worldly suffisaunce! o lady bright! and save your feithfull true, and, er i die, yet on[e]s upon me rewe.' with that i fell in sounde, and dede as stone, with colour slain, and wan as assh[es] pale; and by the hand she caught me up anon, 'aryse,' quod she, 'what? have ye dronken dwale? why slepen ye? it is no nightertale.' 'now mercy, swete,' quod i, y-wis affrayed: 'what thing,' quod she, 'hath mad you so dismayed? now wot i well that ye a lover be, your hewe is witnesse in this thing,' she seid: 'if ye were secret, [ye] might know,' quod she, 'curteise and kind, all this shuld be allayed: and now, myn herte! all that i have misseid, i shall amend, and set your harte in ese.' 'that word it is,' quod i, 'that doth me plese.' 'but this i charge, that ye the statuts kepe, and breke thaim not for sloth nor ignoraunce.' with that she gan to smyle and laughen depe. 'y-wis,' quod i, 'i will do your plesaunce; the sixteenth statut doth me grete grevaunce, but ye must that relesse or modifie.' 'i graunt,' quod she, 'and so i will truly.' and softly than her colour gan appeare, as rose so rede, through-out her visage all, wherefore me think it is according here, that she of right be cleped rosiall. thus have i won, with wordes grate and small, some goodly word of hir that i love best, and trust she shall yit set myne harte in rest. . . . . . . 'goth on,' she seid to philobone, 'and take this man with you, and lede him all abowt within the court, and shew him, for my sake, what lovers dwell withinne, and all the rowte of officers; for he is, out of dowte, a straunger yit:'--'come on,' quod philobone, 'philogenet, with me now must ye gon.' and stalking soft with esy pace, i saw about the king [ther] stonden environ, attendaunce, diligence, and their felaw fortherer, esperaunce, and many oon; dred-to-offend there stood, and not aloon; for there was eke the cruell adversair, the lovers fo, that cleped is dispair, which unto me spak angrely and fell, and said, my lady me deceiven shall: 'trowest thow,' quod she, 'that all that she did tell, is true? nay, nay, but under hony gall! thy birth and +hers, [they] be nothing egall: cast of thyn hart, for all her wordes whyte, for in good faith she lovith thee but a lyte. and eek remember, thyn habilite may not compare with hir, this well thow wot.' ye, than cam hope and said, 'my frend, let be! beleve him not: dispair, he ginneth dote.' 'alas,' quod i, 'here is both cold and hot: the tone me biddeth love, the toder nay; thus wot i not what me is best to say. but well wot i, my lady graunted me, truly to be my woundes remedy; her gentilness may not infected be with dobleness, thus trust i till i dy.' so cast i void dispaires company, and taken hope to councell and to frend. 'ye, kepe that wele,' quod philobone, 'in mind.' and there besyde, within a bay-window, stood oon in grene, full large of brede and length, his berd as blak as fethers of the crow; his name was lust, of wounder might and strength; and with delyt to argue there he thenkth, for this was all his [hool] opinion, that love was sin! and so he hath begon to reson fast, and legge auctoritè: 'nay,' quod delyt, 'love is a vertue clere, and from the soule his progress holdeth he: blind appetyt of lust doth often stere, and that is sin: for reson lakketh there, for thow [dost] think thy neighbours wyfe to win: yit think it well that love may not be sin; for god and seint, they love right verely, void of all sin and vice: this knowe i wele, affeccion of flessh is sin, truly; but verray love is vertue, as i fele, for love may not thy freil desire akele: for [verray] love is love withouten sin.' 'now stint,' quoth lust, 'thow spekest not worth a pin.' and there i left thaim in their arguing, roming ferther in the castell wyde, and in a corner lier stood talking of lesings fast, with flatery there besyde; he seid that women were attire of pryde, and men were founde of nature variaunt, and coud be false, and shewen beau semblaunt. than flatery bespake and seid, y-wis: 'see, so she goth on patens faire and fete, hit doth right wele: what prety man is this that rometh here? now truly, drink ne mete nede i not have; myne hart for joye doth bete him to behold, so is he goodly fressh: it semeth for love his harte is tender nessh.' this is the court of lusty folk and glad, and wel becometh their habit and array: o why be som so sorry and so sad, complaining thus in blak and whyte and gray? freres they ben, and monkes, in good fay: alas, for rewth! greet dole it is to seen, to see thaim thus bewaile and sory been. see how they cry and wring their handes whyte, for they so sone went to religion! and eke the nonnes, with vaile and wimple plight, there thought that they ben in confusion: 'alas,' thay sayn, 'we fayn perfeccion, in clothes wide, and lak our libertè; but all the sin mote on our frendes be. for, venus wot, we wold as fayn as ye, that ben attired here and wel besene, desiren man, and love in our degree, ferme and feithfull, right as wold the quene: our frendes wikke, in tender youth and grene, ayenst our will made us religious; that is the cause we morne and wailen thus.' than seid the monks and freres in the tyde, 'wel may we curse our abbeys and our place, our statuts sharp, to sing in copes wyde, chastly to kepe us out of loves grace, and never to fele comfort ne solace; yet suffre we the hete of loves fire, and after than other haply we desire. o fortune cursed, why now and wherefore hast thow,' they seid, 'beraft us libertè, sith nature yave us instrument in store, and appetyt to love and lovers be? why mot we suffer suche adversitè, diane to serve, and venus to refuse? ful often sith this matier doth us muse. we serve and honour, sore ayenst our will, of chastitè the goddes and the quene; us leffer were with venus byden still, and have reward for love, and soget been unto thise women courtly, fressh, and shene. fortune, we curse thy whele of variaunce! there we were wele, thou revest our plesaunce.' thus leve i thaim, with voice of pleint and care, in raging wo crying ful pitously; and as i yede, full naked and full bare some i behold, looking dispitously, on povertè that dedely cast their y; and 'welaway!' they cried, and were not fain, for they ne might their glad desire attain. for lak of richesse worldely and of +gode, they banne and curse, and wepe, and sein, 'alas, that poverte hath us hent that whylom stode at hartis ese, and free and in good case! but now we dar not shew our-self in place, ne us embolde to duelle in company, there-as our hart wold love right faithfully.' and yet againward shryked every nonne, the prang of love so straineth thaim to cry: 'now wo the tyme,' quod thay, 'that we be boun! this hateful ordre nyse will don us dy! we sigh and sobbe, and bleden inwardly, freting our-self with thought and hard complaint, that ney for love we waxen wode and faint.' and as i stood beholding here and there, i was war of a sort full languisshing, savage and wild of loking and of chere, their mantels and their clothës ay tering; and oft thay were of nature complaining, for they their members lakked, fote and hand, with visage wry and blind, i understand. they lakked shap, and beautie to preferre theim-self in love: and seid, that god and kind hath forged thaim to worshippen the sterre, venus the bright, and leften all behind his other werkes clene and out of mind: 'for other have their full shape and bewtee, and we,' quod they, 'ben in deformitè.' and nye to thaim there was a company, that have the susters waried and misseid; i mene, the three of fatall destinè, that be our +werdes; and sone, in a brayd, out gan they cry as they had been affrayd, 'we curse,' quod thay, 'that ever hath nature y-formed us, this wofull lyfe t'endure!' and there he was contrite, and gan repent, confessing hole the wound that citherè hath with the dart of hot desire him sent, and how that he to love must subjet be: than held he all his skornes vanitè, and seid, that lovers lede a blisful lyfe, yong men and old, and widow, maid and wyfe. 'bereve +me, goddesse,' quod he, '[of] thy might, my skornes all and skoffes, that i have no power forth, to mokken any wight, that in thy service dwell: for i did rave: this know i well right now, so god me save, and i shal be the chief post of thy feith, and love uphold, the révers who-so seith.' dissemble stood not fer from him in trouth, with party mantill, party hood and hose; and said, he had upon his lady rowth, and thus he wound him in, and gan to glose of his entent full doble, i suppose: and al the world, he seid, he loved it wele; but ay, me thoughte, he loved her nere a dele. eek shamefastness was there, as i took hede, that blusshed rede, and durst nat ben a-knowe she lover was, for thereof had she drede; she stood and hing her visage down alowe; but suche a sight it was to sene, i trow, +as of these roses rody on their stalk: there cowd no wight her spy to speke or talk in loves art, so gan she to abasshe, ne durst not utter all her privitè: many a stripe and many a grevous lasshe she gave to thaim that wolden loveres be, and hindered sore the simpill comonaltè, that in no wyse durst grace and mercy crave; for were not she, they need but ask and have; where if they now approchin for to speke, than shamefastness returnith thaim again: thay think, if +we our secret councell breke, our ladies will have scorn on us, certain, and [per]aventure thinken greet disdain: thus shamefastness may bringin in dispeir, whan she is dede, the toder will be heir. com forth, avaunter! now i ring thy bell! i spyed him sone; to god i make a-vowe, he loked blak as fendes doth in hell:-- 'the first,' quod he, 'that ever [i] did +wowe, within a word she com, i wot not how, so that in armes was my lady free; and so hath ben a thousand mo than she. in englond, bretain, spain, and pycardie, arteys, and fraunce, and up in hy holand, in burgoyne, naples, and [in] italy, naverne, and grece, and up in hethen land, was never woman yit that wold withstand to ben at myn commaundement, whan i wold: i lakked neither silver, coin, ne gold. and there i met with this estate and that; and here i broched her, and here, i trow: lo! there goth oon of myne; and wot ye what? yon fressh attired have i leyd full low; and such oon yonder eke right well i know: i kept the statut whan we lay y-fere; and yet yon same hath made me right good chere.' thus hath avaunter blowen every-where al that he knowith, and more, a thousand-fold; his auncetrye of kin was to lière, for firste he makith promise for to hold his ladies councell, and it not unfold; wherfore, the secret when he doth unshit, than lyeth he, that all the world may wit. for falsing so his promise and behest, i wounder sore he hath such fantasie; he lakketh wit, i trowe, or is a best, that can no bet him-self with reson gy. by myn advice, love shal be contrarie to his availe, and him eke dishonoure, so that in court he shall no more sojoure. 'take hede,' quod she, this litell philobone, 'where envy rokketh in the corner yond, and sitteth dirk; and ye shall see anone his lenë bodie, fading face and hond; him-self he fretteth, as i understond; witnesse of ovid methamorphosose; the lovers fo he is, i wil not glose. for where a lover thinketh him promote, envy will grucch, repyning at his wele; hit swelleth sore about his hartes rote, that in no wyse he can not live in hele; and if the feithfull to his lady stele, envy will noise and ring it round aboute, and sey moche worse than don is, out of dowte.' and prevy thought, rejoysing of him-self, stood not fer thens in habit mervelous; 'yon is,' thought [i], 'som spirit or some elf, his sotill image is so curious: how is,' quod i, 'that he is shaded thus with yonder cloth, i not of what colour?' and nere i went, and gan to lere and pore, and frayned him [a] question full hard. 'what is,' quod i, 'the thing thou lovest best? or what is boot unto thy paines hard? me think, thow livest here in grete unrest; thow wandrest ay from south to est and west, and est to north; as fer as i can see, there is no place in court may holden thee. whom folowest thow? where is thy harte y-set? but my demaunde asoile, i thee require.' 'me thought,' quod he, 'no crëature may let +me to ben here, and where-as i desire: for where-as absence hath don out the fire, my mery thought it kindleth yet again, that bodily, me think, with my souverain i stand and speke, and laugh, and kisse, and halse, so that my thought comforteth me full oft: i think, god wot, though all the world be false, i will be trewe; i think also how soft my lady is in speche, and this on-loft bringeth myn hart +to joye and [greet] gladnesse; this prevey thought alayeth myne hevinesse. and what i thinke, or where to be, no man in all this erth can tell, y-wis, but i: and eke there nis no swallow swift, ne swan so wight of wing, ne half [so] yern can fly; for i can been, and that right sodenly, in heven, in helle, in paradise, and here, and with my lady, whan i will desire. i am of councell ferre and wyde, i wot, with lord and lady, and their previtè i wot it all; but be it cold or hot, they shall not speke without licence of me, i mene, in suche as sesonable be; for first the thing is thought within the hert, ere any word out from the mouth astert.' and with that word thought bad farewell and yede: eke furth went i to seen the courtes gyse: and at the dore cam in, so god me spede, +twey courteours of age and of assyse liche high, and brode, and, as i me advyse, the golden love, and leden love thay hight: the ton was sad, the toder glad and light. [_some stanzas lost._] 'yis! draw your hart, with all your force and might, to lustiness, and been as ye have seid; and think that i no drop of favour hight, ne never had to your desire obeyd, till sodenly, me thought, me was affrayed, to seen you wax so dede of countenaunce; and pitè bad me don you some plasaunce. out of her shryne she roos from deth to lyve, and in myne ere full prevely she spak, "doth not your servaunt hens away to dryve, rosiall," quod she; and than myn harte [it] brak, for tender +reuth: and where i found moch lak in your persoune, +than i my-self bethought, and seid, "this is the man myne harte hath sought."' 'gramercy, pitè! might i +but suffice to yeve the lawde unto thy shryne of gold, god wot, i wold; for sith that +thou did rise from deth to lyve for me, i am behold to +thanken you a thousand tymes told, and eke my lady rosiall the shene, which hath in comfort set myn harte, i wene. and here i make myn protestacion, and depely swere, as [to] myn power, to been feithfull, devoid of variacion, and her forbere in anger or in tene, and serviceable to my worldes quene, with al my reson and intelligence, to don her honour high and reverence.' i had not spoke so sone the word, but she, my souverain, did thank me hartily, and seid, 'abyde, ye shall dwell still with me till seson come of may; for than, truly, the king of love and all his company shall hold his fest full ryally and well:' and there i bode till that the seson fell. . . . . . . on may-day, whan the lark began to ryse, to matens went the lusty nightingale within a temple shapen hawthorn-wise; he might not slepe in all the nightertale, but '_domine labia_,' gan he crye and gale, 'my lippes open, lord of love, i crye, and let my mouth thy preising now bewrye.' the eagle sang '_venite_, bodies all, and let us joye to love that is our helth.' and to the deske anon they gan to fall, and who come late, he pressed in by stelth: than seid the fawcon, our own hartis welth, '_domine, dominus noster_, i wot, ye be the god that don us bren thus hot.' '_celi enarrant_,' said the popingay, 'your might is told in heven and firmament.' and than came in the goldfinch fresh and gay, and said this psalm with hertly glad intent, '_domini est terra_; this laten intent, the god of love hath erth in governaunce:' and than the wren gan skippen and to daunce. '_jube, domine_, lord of love, i pray commaund me well this lesson for to rede; this legend is of all that wolden dey marters for love; god yive the sowles spede! and to thee, venus, +sing we, out of drede, by influence of all thy vertue grete, beseching thee to kepe us in our hete.' the second lesson robin redebrest sang, 'hail to the god and goddess of our lay!' and to the lectorn +amorously he sprang:-- 'hail,' quod [he] eke, 'o fresh seson of may, our moneth glad that singen on the spray! hail to the floures, rede, and whyte, and blewe, which by their vertue make our lustes newe!' the thrid lesson the turtill-dove took up, and therat lough the mavis [as] in scorn: he said, 'o god, as mot i dyne or sup, this folissh dove will give us all an horn! there been right here a thousand better born, to rede this lesson, which, as well as he, and eke as hot, can love in all degree.' the turtill-dove said, 'welcom, welcom, may, gladsom and light to loveres that ben trewe! i thank thee, lord of love, that doth purvey for me to rede this lesson all of dewe; for, in gode sooth, of corage i +pursue to serve my make till deth us must depart:' and than '_tu autem_' sang he all apart. '_te deum amoris_' sang the thrustell-cok: tuball him-self, the first musician, with key of armony coude not unlok so swete [a] tewne as that the thrustill can: 'the lord of love we praisen,' quod he than, 'and so don all the fowles, grete and lyte; honour we may, in fals lovers dispyte.' '_dominus regnavit_,' seid the pecok there, 'the lord of love, that mighty prince, y-wis, he hath received her[e] and every-where: now _jubilate_ +sing:'--'what meneth this?' seid than the linet; 'welcom, lord of blisse!' out-stert the owl with '_benedicite_, what meneth al this mery fare?' quod he. '_laudate_,' sang the lark with voice full shrill; and eke the kite, '_o admirabile_; this quere will throgh myne eris pers and thrill; but what? welcom this may seson,' quod he; 'and honour to the lord of love mot be, that hath this feest so solemn and so high:' '_amen_,' seid all; and so seid eke the pye. and furth the cokkow gan procede anon, with '_benedictus_' thanking god in hast, that in this may wold visite thaim echon, and gladden thaim all whyl the fest shall last: and therewithall a-loughter out he brast, 'i thank it god that i shuld end the song, and all the service which hath been so long.' thus sang thay all the service of the fest, and that was don right erly, to my dome; and furth goth all the court, both most and lest, to feche the floures fressh, and braunche and blome; and namly, hawthorn brought both page and grome. with fressh garlandës, partie blewe and whyte, and thaim rejoysen in their greet delyt. eke eche at other threw the floures bright, the prymerose, the violet, the gold; so than, as i beheld the ryall sight, my lady gan me sodenly behold, and with a trew-love, plited many-fold, she smoot me through the [very] hert as blyve; and venus yet i thanke i am alyve. _from_ ms. trin. r. . , fol. ; _collated with the print of the same in_ (s.) stowe's _edition_ ( ). _i note some rejected readings of the_ ms. . tym_er_os; tremlyng. . poort. . none. . matere. . poemys; virgile. . galfride. . termys. . honoure. . wille; s. wil. , , . thowe. . the; anone. . miste. . litill. . courte. . bene. . beseche. . whate; nede. . woo. . soo. . myne. . kynde. . pleasure. . courte. . mounte. . maiestie. . sonne. . cupyde; blynde; dignyte. . theire kne. . bidde; s. bid. in (_read_ on). to pere (_read_ tapere). . marcury. . be; s. by. ferre. . whate; that it drewe (_read_ to it drew). . courte. . se (_read_ sey). . knewe. . courte; nye. . full_e_ faste; hie. . overtoke; seide. . haile; wende. . forsothe; one; mayde. . courte nowe goo. . withynne. . behelde. . bespredde. . stone; s. stones. werke. . thanne; emerawde. . bales turkes. . bene. . shone; pease. . trespace; tweyne. . founde; faste. . harte. . maste. . gynith; s. ginneth. . please. . whate. . discrive; s. descrie. . sawe; none. . withynne; oute. . sawe; verely. . whate; deyses; signifie. . floure. . yit; s. it. kepte; soioure. . obeide. , . theire. . whate; cowde. . nere (_twice_). . silke. . helise. . beseen. . theire; sawe; twayn. . frett; payne. . drynke. . ryaltie; s. rialtee. . bene. . nere. . disdeyne. . _i supply_ non. . ye; s. eye. . stode. . shapyn liche; darte. . sherpe. . shone. . disshivill crispe downe. . southly; spake. . the; faire. . weneth (s. w[=o]neth). howe; eyre. . grete; crafte; grete; delite. . occupie. . cithare; nowe swete. . spake. . worde; harde. . myne; aduerte. . witte; harde. . bewtie; ferde. . whenne. . whate. . sone. . howe; whate. . come; whate. . sene; courte. . aske; grete. . none; come; courte. . mercurius (_see_ l. ). . gentill feire; nowe. . whate thowe; s. what tho (i.e. then). . youre fre wille. . dide; wille. . reigne. . ease. ioylof; s. ialous (_read_ iolif). . youre dewtie; ferre; canne. . courte; youre. . knowe. . whanne youre fote; spanne. . be (_for_ by); wilfull. . kepte youre. . youre (_often_). . motte. . s. amidde the sea. rayne. . that(!); s. then. payne. . suche; absente. . courte. . sone. . wille; youre coloure. . most bayte. . agoone. . drawe; courte. . se howe rowhe (s. rough). . shewe; se. . myne; knele downe; aske. . welle; wolle none. . comforte; none; councell; youre ease. . wille; thanne. . iche. . please howe. . myne owen. . sprite. . the; s. that. . worche. . benigne harte. . myghtes (_read_ might is). . lyste; correcte. . punyssh; enfecte. . gode; founde. . grounde. . cupide. . behild; s. behelde. . seyng. . folke; wild (s. welde). . theire; wele; case. . shone; wyndowes; glasse. . feire. . fressh. . bewtie. . penytyng (!). . aboute. . howe; feale. . stonyed; s. astonied. . thoo folke. . hade. , . theire. . to (!); _read_ lo; folke; blewe. . coloure. . signe. . southly. . calle. . bene. . ferre; sherpe. . whate done. . hermytes. . theire woo. . goo . frely; suche libertie. . eche. . none. . made. . courte; fre; euerichone. . wille. . arraye. . mekely. . theire harte. . aboute. . se; come; high (s. hie). . co_m_maunde. . -oute; courte; crye. . newe; wote; whye. . luste; youe sone. . come nere; se; wille mote nede; done. . tremelyng (s. trembling); hewe. . unto the tyme (_om._ the); knewe. . yove (s. yeue); trewe. . laste. . sterne; whate. . ferre. . courte. . coude; espye. . myne; eny; myne ye. . gane. . nowe; submytte. . thowe; trewe. . seruen(!); thyne. . thanne. . thowe shalte. . owe youre crowne. . sene; euerychone. . hie. . oure; shewe; one by one. . statutis; courte. . boke; leide; her (s. their); ye. . se whate; most. . courte. . redde. . statutis; courte; halle. . firste statute. . kynde. . coude thynke; harte; wille; mynde. . secunde statute secretely. . knowe; and (_read_ or). . sowne. . kynde. . thridde statute. . _om._ the (_supplied in_ s.). . none; woo. . brynde delite. . withoute. . statute. . folke; fire. . aboute. . hote desire. . howe. . kepte; displease. . ease. . statute. . squymouse. . veryeuly (s. verely); statute. . crueltie. . harte exilyn. . statute. . bewtie. . thinke; _i supply_ it. . thynke. . howe. . woo. . statute. . helden (_sic_). . othe. . and shewing (_om._ and). . statute. . hourely laboure; grete attendaunce (s. entte_n_daunce). . harte entier. . fire; s. faire. . debonayre. . statute. . displease. . mekely; yerde. . statute; discerne. . thynke; arte; yerne. . thyne harte. . disdayne. . the. . yf (s. giue); reyne. . libertie. . ellis. . statute. knowe (_read_ con). . ie (_for_ y). . lowe; kowigh (_for_ cough). . ofte. . bring vp (_om._ vp). . moche resorte. . sporte. . statute. . payne; haste. . thou _or_ thon (s. the_n_); thynke; goo. . bette. . statute. . whate; please. . thyne hartes. . think; _i supply_ it; thyne ease. . sent (_read_ send); harte pease (_read_ herte apese). . letre; devise. . statute; shalte. . formely; parte. . wisshe. . thy nyghtes hart_es_ wife (_om._ nyghtes). . whanne. . merely. . statute. . frende. . thynke. . shuld. . beste. . semyth (s. semth). . thinke; fayre. . cowde. . thinke; wykked (_read_ wikke); appaier. . sklaunderyng; estate. . debate. . fawte; thyne ye. . statute. . counterfete. . honoure; -whare. . _i supply_ for her; boldely. . gode; gostely. . harte. . agayne; plesire. . wille. . shalte thowe. . crowe. . whate; the wille forbidde. . eschewe; souerentie. . hir appetide felawe (_sic_; s. appetite folowe). . statute. . please. . morowe. . drynke; thyne ease. . thyne; dyssease. . wynne; alle. . courte; shalle. . fewe thynke; statute. . reason. . please; ofte. . none othe; statute. . nowe; garlant; folke. . (_from this point, i cease to give minute corrections of spelling, such as are given above._) . fel (_read_ ful). . delite. . hard; statute redde. . fonne. . in the remembraunce (i _omit_ the). . and (_read_ as). . it (_read_ yit). . gam; s. game. . bidde (_read_ bit). . holy. . please. . mastresse. . but(!); _read_ been. . the (_for st_ they; s. thei). . be (_for_ by). ms. savioure(!); s. soueraine. . hartes. . ms. revowe; s. renewe; _i supply_ all. . made. . sene(!). . wonne; s. won. be (_for_ by). . cherely (s. clerely); shone. . they (_read_ ye). . herkyn. . othe; made. . loues (!); s. leaues. . bene. . statute (_read_ statuts; _see_ ). . hie. . kepten ben. . ecchone. . owen. . youe; s. yeue. . guyse. . thengene. . be (_for_ by). . sugre. . hart. . youen; s. yeuen. . or; s. of. yove; s. yeue. . widue; s. widowe. . or (!); s. for. . guyde. . cithera. . _i supply_ the; enfluence. . ladis (s. ladies); please. . hart; ease. . prayer (_for_ pray her). . hart. . filicite. . hote. . feele; s. fele. . woo. . blessedfull; s. blissedful. . bene. . ponysshe. . counterfete. . dye; s. deie. . baron (_read_ barein); s. barain. . alleide. . blisse. . eternel (_read_ eterne); i-hired (_read_ y-heried). . wanne. . woman vnto woman (!); s. woman unto man. , . hartes. . _i supply_ to. . faute; excercised. . celcitude. . compersion; s. comparison. . made. . _i supply_ that. . godely. . beseche. . lucorne; s. liquor (!). . vse (!); s. vre. . harte. . blissed; s. blessed. . yove (s. yeue); to me (s. me aie, _which seems better_). . and nedely most (_om._ and). . be (_for st_ by). . vision. . se (_read_ sey). . _i supply_ that; shone. . fercid. . by; s. be. . hartes hie. . guyde. . harte. . affeccion. . hart; styke. . hart_es_. . for to (_om._ for). . in kepen (!); s. i kepen. . preice. . harte; peice. . ye. . wounderly. . hie. . who; _read_ whos. . harte. . piteously; s. pitously. . haue (!); _read_ half. . asslike_n_ (_read_ aslaken); s. asken (!). . gryfe; s. grief. . womanhode (!). . meane; ease. . owen. . please. . witte. . spryngen (_sic_). . dowte. . sene. . sonne. . demeane. . spede; s. speke (_a needless alteration_). . ms. mir and ioye and blisse; s. mirrour ioye and blisse. . abeisen. . withouten. . is (_read_ as); _supply_ is; youen (s. yeuon). . be; s. by. . think; s. thanke. . the (= þe, _error for_ ye); s. thei (!). . fayne. . opon. . piteously; s. pitously. . faier. . vertuse (_sic_). . heire (!). . ote (!); s. hote. . godely; whoes. . ye (_read_ ee). . harte. . you (!); s. yeue. . grete. . toke. . harte. . lylly. . loueliessh (!); s. liuelishe. flawe (_for_ flave). . prengnaunte. . stand. . one. . oders (!); s. odours; found. . switnesse; s. swetenesse. . pease; hidde. . bewry; s. bewraie. . bidde. . her intresse (_read_ here in tresses). . kepte (_perhaps for_ kempt). . _i supply_ but. . _i supply_ yet. ms. alcenia (!). . eurosa (!). . stode. . delite. . godely. . toke. . folowith. . _i supply_ the _and_ all. . i (!); s. ye. . give (!); _read_ grief. . harte (!); _read_ harm. . mekely. . require (!). . harte. . meke. . and me (s. me); _read_ my. . rase. . delite. . please; harte. . _i supply_ old. . thynkes (_sic_). . eprent (_for_ e_n_prent). . becom_m_en. . owyn; s. owne. . most. . yf (= yif); s. giue. . one; harte. . refute. . allegaunce (!). . gode wille. . cheryssh. . gref. . southly. . and (!); _read_ i. . sene (_sic_). . vppon; _read_ on. . nete (_error for_ note = noot). . hete (_error for_ hote = hoot). . hart why (_rest of line blank; i supply_ make it straunge). . for (!); s. fro. . harte. . goddes (s. gods); _read_ god. . harte. . beganne. . _i supply_ lo; nobly (s. nobleye). . done (_sic_). . growen (_sic_); s. greuen. . clere; hatter (s. hotter); ye. , . done, sone. . ye. . syke; _read_ seke. . serchynne; _read_ serchen in. . wynne. . abide (_read_ byde); thowe; kynne. . guyse. . rewth. . owen; lawly. . thowe. . most. . cease (_twice_). . optayne. . rightwose (!). . ye may gise (_or_ gife) this wounder wide (_no sense_). . alas thanne youre (_om._ thanne); crueltie. . gote. . fostered and ifedde. . ispedde. . arst. . spritis. . sauf. . ar (_for_ er). . aryse anon quod (_om._ anon). . nytirtale. . made. . _i supply_ ye. . myne harte. . harte; ease. . please. . steutes (!); _error for_ statuts. . most. . thynke that it (_i omit_ that). . godely. . phelobone. . officers him shewe for (_om._ him shewe). . easy pase. . _i supply_ ther. . felowe. . asperaunce. . stode. . adu_er_sary (!). . displesire (!); _for_ despair (_see_ l. ). . dysseyuene (!); _error for_ dysseyuen. . throwest (!); s. trowest. . his (!); _read_ hers; _i supply_ they. . gode; louith. . hote. . dye. . stode one. . thynketh; s. thinkth. . _i supply_ hool. . synne; begonne. . reason. . delite. . appityde (!); stirre (s. stere). . synne; reason. . _i supply_ dost; do wyn (_read_ to win). . synne. . verely. . synne; vise. . synne. . for verray loue may not thy freyle desire akkele (_too long_). . _i supply_ verray; synne. . pynne. . stode. . woman (!). . beawe. . her; s. here. . godely. . abite. . gode. . sene. . bene. . synne. . hire (!); s. here. . monke; _read_ monks. . course (s. curse); abbes. . aftir than other happly. . libartie. . appetide (!). . matiers (!). . revist. . woo; petiously. . beholde (_perhaps read_ beheld); dispiteously. . ye. . gold (!); _read_ gode _or_ good. . eas; gode. . _not in the_ ms.; _supplied by_ stowe. . prange (_and so in_ s.). . woo; boune. . dye. . stode. . ware. . mantaylles. . there; s. their. . shappe; bewtie. . wordes (!). . to endure. . _sic._ . sent; _perhaps read_ shent. . blissed full (!). . widue. . my (_read_ me); _i supply_ of. . forth (s. for). . ded (_for_ did). . chife. . hode. . toke. . blasshed (_for_ blusshed); darst (_for_ durst). . and (!); _read_ as. . harte (!); _for_ art. . previte. . gaven (!). . co_mo_naltie. . nede. . thay (_read_ we); secrites (!). . ladys; certen. . _i supply_ per-. , . bryngyn; dispeire; heire. . firste; _i supply_ i; ded vowe. . _i supply_ in. . lond. . withstond. . the (!); s. this. . goith one; wotte; whate. . yonne. . one. . kynne; lier. . ladys. . vnshitte. . that leith; s. than lieth; witte. . fantasie. . canne; bette; reason guy. . be (_for_ by). . soiorne (!); s. soioure. . rokketh (_perhaps read_ rouketh); cornor (!). . methamorphosees; s. methamorphosose. . foo; gloose. . hartes. . stode; ferre; abite. . yonne; _i supply_ i; sprite. . corious; s. curious. . _i supply_ a. . bote. . ferre; canne. . nowe; _read_ me. . kyndelith. . bodely. . from (!); _read_ to; _i supply_ greet. . _i supply_ so. . laday (!); s. lady. . hoote or cold. . withouten. , . harte, astarte. . sene; cortis guyse. . twenty (!); _read_ twey. . the tone. . vnto; _read_ to. . sene. . pleasaunce. . shyne (s. shrine); rose. . eke (!); s. eare. . _i supply_ it; blak (_for_ brak). . reiche (_read_ reuth). . and i me; _read_ than i myself. . not (!); _read_ but. . she (_sic_); _read_ thou. . taken (!); s. thanken. . _i supply_ to. . heree (!); _for_ her. . reason. , . season. . bewreye; s. bewrye. . preced. . oure owen. . brenne; hote. . cely enarant. . thus (!; s. this); hartily. . dye. . yf (_for_ yive). . signe (!). . amoryly (!); sprong. . _i supply_ he. . _sic._ . maketh; _read_ make. . toke. . _i supply_ as. . mut; dyene; suppe. . gife. . south; purpose (!); _read_ pursue. . most. . tue (!). . on-lok. . _i supply_ a. . light; _read_ lyte. . sang (!); _read_ sing. . lynette. . ki[gh]t; s. kight. . throwe. . season. . solempne. . lest. . goith. . bleme (!). . garlantis. . reioyson; theire grete delite. . smote; thrugh; _i supply_ very; harte. * * * * * xxv. virelai. alone walking, in thought pleyning, and sore sighing, all desolate, me remembring of my living, my deth wishing bothe erly and late. infortunate is so my fate that, wote ye what? out of mesure my lyf i hate thus desperate; in pore estate do i endure. of other cure am i nat sure, thus to endure is hard, certain; such is my ure, i yow ensure; what creature may have more pain? my trouth so pleyn is take in veyn, and gret disdeyn in remembraunce; yet i full feyn wold me compleyn me to absteyn from this penaunce. but in substaunce noon allegeaunce of my grevaunce can i nat finde; right so my chaunce with displesaunce doth me avaunce; and thus an ende. _explicit._ _from_ trin. (trin. coll. cam. r. . ); _collated with_ s. (stowe's ed. ). . s. death. trin. wyssyng; s. wishyng. s. early. . trin. soo; s. so. . trin. whate oute. s. measure. . trin. lyfe; s. life. . trin. in suche pore (i _omit_ suche). s. doe. . s. not. . s. maie. . s. truthe; plain; vain. . s. greate disdain. . trin. feyne; s. faine. s. would. trin. co_m_pleyne; s. co_m_plaine. . trin. absteyne; s. abstaine. . s. none. . s. not. . s. doeth. * * * * * xxvi. prosperity. richt as povert causith sobirnes, and febilnes enforcith contenence, richt so prosperitee and gret riches the moder is of vice and negligence; and powere also causith insolence; and honour oftsiss chaungith gude thewis; thare is no more perilous pestilence than hie estate geven unto schrewis. quod chaucere. xxvi. _from_ ms. arch. seld. b. , fol. ; _i give rejected spellings_. . ry_ch_t; grete. . p_er_ilouss. * * * * * xxvii. leaulte vault richesse. this warldly joy is only fantasy, of quhich non erdly wicht can be content; quho most has wit, lest suld in it affy, quho taistis it most, most sall him repent; quhat valis all this richess and this rent, sen no man wat quho sall his tresour have? presume nocht gevin that god has don but lent, within schort tyme the quhiche he thinkis to crave. _leaulte vault richesse._ xxvii. _from_ ms. arch. seld. b. , fol. ; _i give rejected spellings_. . ioy; onely. . leste. . wate. . done. . richess. * * * * * xxviii. sayings printed by caxton. . whan feyth failleth in prestes sawes, and lordes hestes ar holden for lawes, and robbery is holden purchas, and lechery is holden solas, than shal the lond of albyon be brought to grete confusioun. . hit falleth for every gentilman to saye the best that he can in [every] mannes absence, and the soth in his presence. . hit cometh by kynde of gentil blode to cast away al hevines, and gadre to-gidre wordes good; the werk of wisdom berith witnes. _et sic est finis._ xxviii. _from_ caxton's print of chaucer's anelida, &c.; see vol. i. p. . also in ed. , in later spelling. . cx. euery. . _i supply_ every. . cx. heuynes. . cx. wisedom. * * * * * xxix. balade in praise of chaucer. master geffray chauser, that now lyth in grave, the nobyll rethoricien, and poet of gret bretayne, that worthy was the lawrer of poetry have for thys hys labour, and the palme attayne; whych furst made to dystyll and reyne the gold dew-dropys of speche and eloquence in-to englyssh tong, thorow hys excellence. _explicit._ xxix. _from_ ms. trin. r. . , fol. ; _also in_ stowe (ed. ). . ms. chaus_er_s; stowe, chauser. . rethoricion (!). . elloquence. * * * * * notes. § i. the testament of love. the text is from thynne's first edition ( ); the later reprints are of inferior value. no ms. of this piece is known. rejected spellings are given at the bottom of each page. conjectural emendations are marked by a prefixed obelus (+). in many places, words or letters are supplied, within square brackets, to complete or improve the sense. for further discussion of this piece, see the introduction. book i. prologue. . the initial letters of the chapters in book i. form the words margarete of. see the introduction. . _by queynt knitting coloures_, by curious fine phrases, that 'knit' or join the words or verses together. for _colours_ = fine phrases, cf. ch., hf. ; c. t., e , f . . _for_, because, seeing that; _boystous_, rough, plain, unadorned; cf. l. . the glossary in vol. vi should be compared for further illustration of the more difficult words. . _for the first leudnesse_, on account of the former lack of skill. . _yeve sight_, enable men to see clearly. . _conne jumpere suche termes_, know how to jumble such terms together. _jumpere_ should rather be spelt _jumpre_; cf. _jompre_ in the gloss. to chaucer. for such words, see the glossary appended to the present volume. _but as_, except as the jay chatters english; i.e. without understanding it; cf. ch. prol. . . _necessaries to cacche_, to lay hold of necessary ideas. throughout this treatise, we frequently find the verb placed _after_ the substantive which it governs, or relegated to the end of the clause or sentence. this absurd affectation often greatly obscures the sense. . the insertion of the words _perfeccion is_ is absolutely necessary to the sense; cf. ll. , . for the general argument, cf. ch. boeth. iii. proses and , where 'perfection' is represented by _suffisaunce_, as, e.g., in iii. pr. . l. . . aristotle's metaphysics begins with the words: [greek: pantes anthrôpoi tou eidenai oregontai phusei], all men by nature are actuated by the desire of knowledge. the reference to this passage is explicitly given in the romans of partenay, ll. - ; and it was doubtless a much worn quotation. and see l. below. . _sightful and knowing_, visible and capable of being known. . _david_. the whole of this sentence is so hopelessly corrupt that i can but give it up. possibly there is a reference to ps. cxxxix. . _me in makinge_ may be put for 'in makinge me.' _tune_ is probably a misprint for _time_; _lent_ may be an error for _sent_; but the whole is hopelessly wrong. . apparently derived from aristotle, de animalibus, bk. i. c. . the general sense is that created things like to know both their creator and the causes of natural things akin to them ([greek: oikeia]). . _considred_; i.e. the forms of natural things and their creation being considered, men should have a great natural love to the workman that made them. . _me_ is frequently written for _men_, the unemphatic form of _man_, in the impersonal sense of 'one' or 'people'; thus, in king horn, ed. morris, , 'ne recche i what _me_ telle' means 'i care not what people may say.' strict grammar requires the form _him_ for _hem_ in l. , as _me_ is properly singular; but the use of _hem_ is natural enough in this passage, as _me_ really signifies created beings in general. cf. _me_ in ch. i. l. below. . _styx_ is not 'a pit,' but a river. the error is chaucer's; cf. 'stix, the put of helle,' in troil. iv. . observe the expression--'stygiamque paludem'; vergil, aen. vi. . . i. e. 'rend the sword out of the hands of hercules, and set hercules' pillars at gades a mile further onward.' for the latter allusion, see ch. vol. ii. p. lv; it may have been taken from guido delle colonne. and see poem viii (below), l. . _gades_, now cadiz. . _the spere_, the spear. there seems to be some confusion here. it was king arthur who drew the magic sword out of the stone, after knights had failed in the attempt: see merlin, ed. wheatley (e. e. t. s.), pp. - . alexander's task was to untie the gordian knot. . _and that_; 'and who says that, surpassing all wonders, he will be master of france by might, whereas even king edward iii could not conquer all of it.' an interesting allusion. . _unconninge_, ignorance. there is an unpublished treatise called 'the cloud of unknowing'; but it is probably not here alluded to. . _gadered_, gathered. thynne almost invariably commits the anachronism of spelling the words _gader_, _fader_, _moder_, _togider_, and the like, with _th_; and i have usually set him right, marking such corrections with a prefixed obelus (+). cf. _weder_ in l. below. . _rekes_, ricks. the idea is from chaucer, l. g. w. - . , . _his reson_, the reason of him. _hayne_, hatred. . _boëce_, boethius. no doubt the author simply consulted chaucer's translation. see the introduction. . _slye_, cunning; evidently alluding to the parable of the unjust steward. . _aristotle_. the allusion appears to be to the nicomachean ethics, bk. i. c. : [greek: doxeie d' an pantos einai proagagein, ... pantos gar prostheinai to elleipon]. . _betiden_, happened to me; the _i_ is short. this sudden transition to the mention of the author's pilgrimage suggests that a portion of the prologue is missing here. chap. i. . copied from ch. boeth. bk. i. met. . ll. , . . _thing_ seems to mean 'person'; the person that cannot now embrace me when i wish for comfort. . _prison_; probably not a material prison. the author, in imitation of boethius, imagines himself to be imprisoned. at p. , l. , he is 'in good plite,' i.e. well off. cf. note to ch. iii. . . _caitived_, kept as a captive; the correction of _caytisned_ (with s for _s_) to _caytifued_ (better spelt _caitived_) is obvious, and is given in the new e. dict., s.v. _caitive_. , . _straunge_, a strange one, some stranger; _me_, one, really meaning 'myself'; _he shulde_, it ought to be. , . _bewent_, turned aside; see new e. dict., s.v. _bewend_. the reading _bewet_, i.e. profusely wetted, occurs (by misprinting) in later editions, and is adopted in the new e. dict, s.v. _bewet_. it is obviously wrong. . _of hem_, by them; these words, in the construction, follow _enlumined_. the very frequent inversion of phrases in this piece tends greatly to obscure the sense of it. . _margarite precious_, a precious pearl. gems were formerly credited with 'virtues'; thus philip de thaun, in his bestiary (ed. wright, l. ), says of the pearl-- 'a mult choses pot valier, ki cestes peres pot aveir,' &c., or, in wright's translation: 'for him who can have this stone, it will be of force against many things; there will never be any infirmity, except death, from which a person will not come to health, who will drink it with dew, if he has true faith.' see l. below. . _twinkling in your disese_, a small matter tending to your discomfort. here _disese_ = dis-ease, want of ease. cf. l. below. . 'it is so high,' &c. the implied subject to which _it_ refers is _paradise_, where the author's _eve_ is supposed to be. hence the sense is:--'paradise is so far away from the place where i am lying and from the common earth, that no cable (let down from it) can reach me.' . _ferdnes_ is obviously the right word, though misprinted _frendes_. it signifies 'fear,' and occurs again in ch. ii. ll. , ; besides, it is again misprinted as _frendes_ in the same chapter, l. . . _weyved_ is an obvious correction for _veyned_; see the glossary. . _mercy passeth right_, your mercy exceeds your justice. this was a proverbial phrase, or, as it is called in the next clause, a 'proposition.' . _flitte_, stir, be moved; 'not even the least bit.' . _souded_ (misprinted _sonded_ by thynne), fixed; cf. ch. c.t., b . from o.f. _souder_, lat. _solidare_. . _do_, cause; 'cause the lucky throw of comfort to fall upward'; alluding to dice-play. . _wolde conne_, would like to be able to. , . _me weninge_, when i was expecting. _ther-as_, whereas. . _no force_, it does not matter; no matter for that. - . evidently corrupt, even when we read _flowing_ for _folowing_, and _of al_ for _by al_. perhaps _ther_ in l. should be _they_; giving the sense:--'but they (thy virtues) are wonderful, i know not which (of them it is) that prevents the flood,' &c. even so, a clause is lacking after _vertues_ in l. . . thynne has _ioleynynge_ for _ioleyuynge_, i.e. _joleyving_, cheering, making joyous. the word is riot given in stratmann or in mätzner, but godefroy has the corresponding o.f. verb _joliver_, to caress. chap. ii. . _a lady_; this is evidently copied from boethius; see ch. boeth. bk. i. pr. . l. . the visitor to the prison of boethius was named philosophy; the visitor in the present case is love, personified as a female; see l. below. . _blustringe_, glance. but the word is not known in this sense, and there is evidently some mistake here. i have no doubt that the right word is _blushinge_; for the m.e. _blusshen_ was often used in the sense of 'to cast a glance, give a look, glance with the eye'; as duly noted in the new e. dict, s.v. _blush_. the word was probably written _bluschinge_ in thynne's ms., with a _c_ exactly (as often) like a _t_. if he misread it as _blusthinge_, he may easily have altered it to _blustringe_. . _neighe_, approach; governing _me_. . _o my nory_, o my pupil! copied from ch. boeth. bk. i. pr. . l. ; cf. the same, bk. iii. pr. . l. . in l. below, we have _my disciple_. . _by thyn owne vyse_, by thine own resolve; i.e. of thine own accord; see _advice_ in the new e. dict. § . _vyse_ is put for _avyse_, the syllable _a_ being dropped. halliwell notes that _vice_, with the sense of 'advice,' is still in use. . 'because it comforts me to think on past gladness, it (also) vexes me again to be doing so.' clumsily expressed; and borrowed from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . ll. - . - . from matt. xviii. ; luke, xv. ; john, x. . . love was kind to paris, because he succeeded in gaining helen. jason was false to love, because he deserted hypsipyle and medea. it is probable that _false_ is misprinted for _faire_ in l. ; otherwise there is no contrast, as is implied by _for_. . _sesars sonke_ (_sic_) should probably be _cesars swink_, i.e. caesar's toil. i adopt this reading to make sense; but it is not at all clear why caesar should have been selected as the type of a successful lover. . _loveday_, a day of reconciliation; see note to ch. c. t., a . . 'and chose a maid to be umpire between god and man'; alluding to the virgin mary. - . _cause, causing_, the primary cause, originating these things and many others besides. see note to troil. iv. . - . _wo is him_; lat. ve soli, eccl. iv. ; quoted in troil. i. . . cf. 'weep with them that weep'; rom. xii. . . here the author bemoans his losses and heavy expenses. . for _wolde endeynous_ i here read _wolde ben deynous_, i.e. would be disdainful; see _deynous_ in the gloss. to chaucer. the new e. dict. adopts the reading _wolde [be] endeynous_, with the same sense; but no other example of the adj. _endeynous_ is known, and it is an awkward formation. however, there are five examples of the verb _endeign_, meaning 'to be indignant'; see wyclif, gen. xviii. ; ex. xxxii. ; is. lvii. ; job, xxxii. ; wisd. xii. . . copied from troil. iv. - :-- 'but canstow playen raket, to and fro, netle in, dokke out, now this, now that, pandare?' see the note on the latter line. _wethercocke_ is a late spelling; the proper m.e. spelling is _wedercokke_, from a nom. _wedercok_, which appears in the poem against women unconstant, l. . . _a_, an unemphatic form of _have_; 'thou wouldest have made me.' . _voyde_, do away with. _webbes_; the _web_, also called _the pin and web_, or _the web and pin_, is a disease of the eyes, now known as cataract. see nares, s.v. _pin_; florio's ital. dict., s.v. _cateratta_; the new e. dict., s.v. _cataract_; king lear, iii. . ; winter's tale, i. . . , . _truste on mars_, trust to mars, i.e. be ready with wager of battle; alluding to the common practice of appealing to arms when a speaker's truthfulness was called in question. see ch. vii. below (p. ). chap. iii. . _come of_, lit. come off; but it is remarkable that this phrase is used in m.e. where we should now say rather 'come on!' see note to troil. ii. . . _mayst thou_, canst thou do (or act)? - . 'i never yet set any one to serve anywhere who did not succeed in his service.' . 'the nut in every nook.' perhaps _on_ should be _in_. - . there is some corruption here. i insert _tho gan i_ to help out the sense, but it remains partially obscure. perhaps the sense is:--'often one does what one does not wish to do, being stirred to do so by the opinion of others, who wanted me to stay at home; whereupon i suddenly began to wish to travel.' he would rather have stayed at home; but when he found that others wanted him to do so, he perversely began to wish to travel. . _the wynding of the erthe_; an obscure expression; perhaps 'the envelopment of the earth in snow.' . 'i walked through woods in which were broad ways, and (then) by small paths which the swine had made, being lanes with by-paths for seeking (there) their beech-mast.' . _ladels_, by-paths (?). no other example of the word appears. i guess it to be a diminutive of m.e. _lade_, a path, road, which occurs in the ormulum; see stratmann. perhaps it is a mere misprint for _lades_. , . _gonne to wilde_, began to grow wild; cf. _ginne ayen waxe ramage_, in l. , with the like sense. i know of no other example of the verb _to wilde_. . _shippe_, ship; not, however, a real ship, but an allegorical one named travail, i.e. danger; see ll. , below. _many_ is here used in place of _meynee_, referring to the ship's company; some of whom had the allegorical names of sight, lust, thought, and will. the 'ship' is a common symbol of this present life, in which we are surrounded by perils; compare the parable of 'the wagging boat' in p. plowm. c. xi. , and the long note to that line. . _old hate_; probably borrowed from ch. pers. tale, i ; see the note. . _avowing_, vowing; because persons in peril used to vow to perform pilgrimages. . _my ship was out of mynde_, i.e. i forgot all about my previous danger. . _the man_, the merchant-man in matt. xiii. . . _enmoysed_, comforted. _enmoise_ or _emmoise_ is a variant of m.e. _amese_, _ameise_, from o.f. _amaiser_, _amaisier_, to pacify, appease, render gentle (godefroy); answering to the low lat. type _*ad-mitiare_ from _mitis_, gentle. see _amese_ in the new e. dict. no other example of the form _enmoyse_ is known. . _of nothing now may serve_, is now of no use (to you). . _prison_; the author has forgotten all about his adventure in the ship, and is now back in prison, as in ch. i. . _renyant forjuged_, a denier (of his guilt) who has been wrongfully condemned. . _suche grace and non hap_, such favour and no mere luck. . _let-games_; probably from troil. iii. ; spoilers of sport or happiness. _wayters_, watchers, watch-men, guards. . _nothing as ye shulde_, not at all as you ought to do. . _feld_, felled, put down, done away with. - . _for he ... suffer_, a perfect alliterative line; imitated from p. plowm. c. xxi. :--'for wot no wight what wele is, that never wo suffrede.' clearly quoted from memory; cf. notes to bk. ii. ch. . , and ch. . . . _happy hevinesse_, fortunate grief; a parallel expression to _lyking tene_, i.e. pleasing vexation, in l. . these contradictory phrases were much affected by way of rhetorical flourish. for a long passage of this character, cf. rom. rose, - . . _harse_ is almost certainly a misprint for _harme_; then _goodly_ _harme_ means much the same as _lyking tene_ (see note above). so, in rom. rose, , , , we find mention of 'a sweet peril,' 'a joyous pain,' and 'a sweet hell.' chap. iv. . _semed they boren_, they seemed to bore; _boren_ being in the infin. mood. . for _or_ read _for_, to make sense; _for of disese_, for out of such distress come gladness and joy, so poured out by means of a full vessel, that such gladness quenches the feeling of former sorrows. here _gladnesse and joy_ is spoken of as being all one thing, governing the singular verb _is_, and being alluded to as _it_. . _commensal_, table-companion; from f. _commensal_, given in cotgrave. see the new e. dict. . _soukinges_, suckings, draughts of milk; cf. ch. boeth. bk. i. pr. . l. . . _clothe_, cloth. this circumstance is copied from ch. boeth. bk. i. pr. . l. . . this reference to love, as controlling the universe, is borrowed from boeth. bk. ii. met. . . read _werne_ (refuse) and _wol_ (will); 'yet all things desire that you should refuse help to no one who is willing to do as you direct him.' . _every thing in coming_, every future thing. _contingent_, of uncertain occurrence; the earliest known quotation for this use of the word in english. - . _many let-games_; repeated from above, ch. iii. ll. - . _thy moeble_; from the same, ll. - . . _by the first_, with reference to your first question; so also _by that other_, with reference to your second question, in l. . chap. v. . acrisius shut his daughter danaë up in a tower, to keep her safe; nevertheless she became the mother of perseus, who afterwards killed acrisius accidentally. . _entremellen_, intermingle hearts after merely seeing each other. . _beestes_, animals, beings; not used contemptuously; equivalent to _living people_ in ll. , . . _esployte_, success, achievement; see _exploit_ in the new e. dict. . supply _don_; 'and i will cause him to come to bliss, as being one of my own servants.' . _and in-to water_, and jumps into the water and immediately comes up to breathe; like an unsuccessful diver. . _a tree_, &c.; a common illustration; cf. troil. i. . . _this countrè_; a common saying; cf. troil. ii. (and note), . and see l. below. . 'the salve that he healed his heel with.' from hf. . . _jangelers_; referring to l. above. _lokers_; referring to _overlokers_; in ch. iii. l. . . _wayters_; referring to ch. iii. l. . . 'it is sometimes wise to feign flight.' cf. p. plowman, c. xxii. . . _cornes_, grains of corn. i supply _bare_, i.e. empty. - . _who_, &c.; a proverb; from troil. v. . - . _after grete stormes_; see note to p. plowman, c. xxi. . . _grobbed_, grubbed; i.e. dug about. cf. isaiah, v. . . _a_, have (as before). _lya_, leah; lat. _lia_, in gen. xxix. (vulgate). . _eighteth_, eighth; an extraordinary perversion of the notion of the sabbatical year. so below, in l. , we are informed that the number of workdays is _seven_; and that, in christian countries, the day of rest is the eighth day in the week! _kinrest_, rest for the _kin_ or people; a general day of rest. i know of no other example of this somewhat clumsy compound. . _sothed_, verified; referring to luke, xiv. . . _conisance_, badge. badges for retainers were very common at this date. see notes to richard the redeless, ii. . - . copied from p. plowman, c. vii. , :-- 'lauhynge al aloude, for lewede men sholde _wene_ that ich were _witty_, and _wyser than anothere_; _scorner_ and unskilful to hem that _skil_ shewed.' as these lines are not found in the earlier versions, it follows that the author was acquainted with the _latest_ version. . _a bridge_; i.e. to serve by way of retreat for such as trust them. _wolves_, destroyers; here meant as a complimentary epithet. . this idea, of jupiter's promotion, from being a bull, to being the mate of europa, is extremely odd; still more so is that of the promotion of aeneas from being in hell (l. ). cf. _europe_ in troil. iii. . . _lowest degrè_; not true, as caesar's father was praetor, and his aunt married marius. but cf. c. t., b . chap. vi. . _enfame_, infamy, obloquy; from lat. _infamia_. godefroy gives _enfamer_, to dishonour. the word only occurs in the present treatise; see ll. , , . . from prov. xxvii. : 'meliora sunt vulnera diligentis quam fraudulenta oscula odientis.' . cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . ll. - . . cf. the same; bk. iv. pr. . ll. - . . cf. the same; bk. ii. pr. . ll. , . . cf. the same; bk. iv. pr. . ll. - . . _zedeoreys_ (or _[gh]edeoreys_). i can find nothing resembling this strange name, nor any trace of its owner's dealings with hannibal. . the (possibly imaginary) autobiographical details here supplied have been strangely handled for the purpose of insertion into the life of chaucer, with which they have nothing to do. see morris's chaucer, vol. i. p. (aldine edition). the author tells us very little, except that tumults took place in london, of which he was a native, and that he had knowledge of some secret which he was pressed to betray, and did so in order to serve his own purposes. - . from chaucer, troil. v. , :-- --'shal dwelle in pyne til lachesis his threed no lenger twyne.' . referring to john, xiv. . . _athenes_; athene was the goddess who maintained the authority of law and order, and in this sense was 'a god of peace.' but she was certainly also a goddess of battles. . _mighty senatoures_. it has been conjectured that the reference is to john of gaunt. in the annals of england, under the date , it is noted that 'john of northampton, a vehement partisan of the duke, is tried and sentenced to imprisonment and forfeiture. an attempt is also made to put the duke on his trial.' john of northampton had been mayor of london in , when there was a dispute between the court and the citizens regarding his election; perhaps the words _comen eleccion_ (common election), in l. above, may refer to this trouble; so also _free eleccion_ in l. . in l. we must read _fate_, not _face_; the confusion between _c_ and _t_ is endless. perhaps _governours_ in l. should be _governour_, as in l. . note that the author seems to condemn the disturbers of the peace. . _coarted by payninge dures_, constrained by painful duress (or torture). . _sacrament_, my oath of allegiance. note that the author takes credit for giving evidence _against_ the riotous people; for which the populace condemned him as a liar (l. ). . _passed_, surpassed (every one), in giving me an infamous character. . _reply_, i.e. to subvert, entirely alter, recall; lit. to fold or bend back. . here the author says, more plainly, that he became unpopular for revealing a conspiracy. . _out of denwere_, out of doubt, without doubt. such is clearly the sense; but the word _denwere_ is rejected from the new e. dict., as it is not otherwise known, and its form is suspicious. it is also omitted in webster and in the century dictionary. bailey has '_denwere_, doubt,' taken from speght's chaucer, and derived from this very passage. hence chatterton obtained the word, which he was glad to employ. it occurs, for instance, in his poem of goddwyn, ed. skeat, vol. ii. p. :-- --'no _denwere_ in my breast i of them feel.' the right phrase is simply _out of were_; cf. 'withoute were' in the book of the duchess, . i think the letters _den_ may have been prefixed accidentally. the line, as printed in thynne, stands thus: 'denwere al the sothe knowe of these thinges.' i suggest that _den_ is an error for _don_, and the word _don_ ought to come at the _end_ of the line (after _thinges_) instead of at the beginning. this would give the readings 'out of were' and 'these thinges don in acte'; both of which are improvements. . _but as_, only as, exactly as. . _clerkes_, i.e. chaucer, hf. ; vergil, aen. iv. . . _of mene_, make mention of. cf. 'hit is a schep[h]erde _that i of mene_'; ancient metrical tales, ed. hartshorne, p. . chap. vii. . _profered_, offered wager of battle; hence the mention of _mars_ in l. . cf. note to ch. ii. above, p. . . _he_, i.e. thine adversary shall bring dishonour upon you in no way. . _indifferent_, impartial. _who_, whoever. . _discovered_, betrayed; so that the author admits that he betrayed his mistress. . _that sacrament_, that the oath to which you swore, viz. when you were charged upon your oath to tell the truth. that is, his oath in the court of justice made him break his private oath. . _trewe_ is certainly an error for _trewthe_; the statement is copied from jer. iv. :--' et iurabis ... in veritate, et in iudicio, et in justitia.' so in l. below, we have: 'in jugement, _in trouthe_, and rightwisenesse'; and in l. --'for a man to say truth, unless judgement and righteousness accompany it, he is forsworn.' . _serment_, oath; as in l. : referring to matt. xiv. . . 'moreover, it is sometimes forbidden to say truth rightfully--except in a trial--because all truths are not to be disclosed.' . _that worde_: 'melius mori quam male vivere'; for which see p. plowman, c. xviii. . somewhat altered from tobit, iii. :--'expedit mihi mori magis quam vivere.' , . _al_, although, _enfame_, dishonour; as in vi. (see note, p. ). . _whan_, yet when. . _legen_, short for _alegen_; 'allege against others.' . here misprinted; _read_:--'may it be sayd, "in that thinge this man thou demest,"' &c. from rom. ii. ; 'in quo enim iudicas alterum, teipsum condemnas.' . _shrewe_, wicked man, i.e. ham; gen. ix. . . _emprisonned_; so in thynne; better, _emprisouned_. . _brige_, contention, struggle, trouble; see note to ch. c. t., b . . _after thyne helpes_, for your aid; i.e. to receive assistance from you. . _selande_, zealand, zeeland. the port of middleburg, in the isle of walcheren, was familiar to the english; cf. note to c. t., prol. . the reference must be to some companions of the author who had fled to zealand to be out of the way of prosecution. _rydinge_, expedition on horseback, journey. , . _for thy chambre_, to pay the rent of your room. _renter_, landlord; 'unknown to the landlord.' . _helpe of unkyndnesse_, relieve from unkind treatment. - . _fleddest_, didst avoid. _privitè to counsayle_, knowledge of a secret. - . cf. ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . ll. - . chap. viii. . _eft_, again. thynne prints _ofte_, which does not give the sense required. fortunately, we know that the first letter _must_ be e, in order that the initial letters of the prologue and chapters i. to viii. may give the word margarete. the reading _ofte_ would turn this into margareto. , . from ch. troil. iv. ; boeth. bk. ii. pr. . ll. - . . _and thou_, if thou. cf. matt. xviii. . . _in their mouthes_, into their mouths; matt. xii. . . _leve for no wight_, cease not on any one's account. . _use jacobs wordes_. the allusion seems to be to the conciliatory conduct of jacob towards esau; gen. xxxiii. , , . similarly the author is to be patient, and to say--'i will endure my lady's wrath, which i have deserved,' &c. . _sowe hem_, to sew them together again. _at his worshippe_, in honour of him; but i can find no antecedent to _his_. perhaps for _his_ we should read _her_. . the text has _forgoing al errour distroyeng causeth_; but _distroyeng_ (which may have been a gloss upon _forgoing_) is superfluous, and _al_ should be _of_. but _forgoing_ means rather 'abandonment.' . _passest_, surpassest. . _by_, with reference to. . hector, according to guido delle colonne, gave counsel against going to war with the greeks, but was overborne by paris. see the alliterative destruction of troy, ed. panton and donaldson (e. e. t. s.), book vi; or lydgate's siege of troye, ch. xii. . _leveth_, neglects to oppose what is wrong. . the modern proverb is: 'silence gives consent.' ray gives, as the latin equivalent, 'qui tacet consentire videtur (inquiunt iuris consulti).' this is the exact form which is here translated. . alluding to the canticle 'exultet' sung upon easter eve, in the sarum missal:--'o certe necessarium ade peccatum.' see note to p. plowman, c. viii. (or b. v. ). . _lurken_, creep into lurking-holes, slink away. . _centre_, central point; from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . ll. - . the whole passage (ll. - ) is imitated from the same 'prose' of boethius. . _london_ is substituted for 'rome' in chaucer's boethius. chaucer has--'may thanne the glorie of a singuler romaine strecchen thider as the fame of the name of rome may nat climben or passen?' see the last note. - . from ch. boethius, bk. ii. pr. . - . - . from the same, ll. - . thus, in l. , the word _ofte_ (in thynne) is a misprint for _of the_; for chaucer has--'for of thinges that han ende may be maked comparisoun.' the whole passage shews that the author consulted chaucer's translation of boethius rather than the latin text. . _and thou canst nothing don aright_; literally from chaucer: 'ye men, certes, _ne conne don nothing aright_'; boeth. bk. ii. pr. . . _but thou desyre the rumour therof be heled and in every wightes ere_; corresponds to chaucer's--'but-yif it be for the audience of the people and for ydel rumours'; boeth. bk. ii. pr. . . hence _heled_ (lit. hidden) is quite inadmissible; the right reading is probably _deled_, i.e. dealt round. . the words supplied are necessary; they dropped out owing to the repetition of _vertue_. - . again copied from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . : 'the sowle ... unbounden fro the prison of the erthe.' chap. ix. . _than leveth there_, then it remains. . _for thy moebles_, because thy goods. . this proverb is given by hazlitt in the form-- 'who-so heweth over-high, the chips will fall in his eye.' cf. 'one looketh high as one that feareth no chips'; lyly's euphues, ed. arber, p. . and see ix. (p. ). . from chaucer, boeth. bk. i. pr. . . the saying is attributed to pythagoras; see the passage in chaucer, and the note upon it. . _a this halfe god_, on this side of god, i.e. here below; a strange expression. so again in bk. ii. ch. . . . _the foure elementes_, earth, air, fire, and water; see notes to ch. c. t., a , , g . _al universitee_, the whole universe; hence man was called the microcosm, or the universe in little; see coriolanus, ii. . . . _i sette now_, i will now suppose the most difficult case; suppose that thou shouldst die in my service. . _in this persone_; read _on this persone_; or else, perhaps, _in this prisoune_. . _til deth hem departe_; according to the phrase 'till death us depart' in the marriage service, now ingeniously altered to 'till death us _do part_.' . 'and although they both break the agreement.' , . _accord_, betrothal. _the rose_, i.e. of virginity; as in the romance of the rose, when interpreted. , . _marye his spouse_. but the vulgate has; 'surge, et accipe puerum et _matrem eius_'; matt. ii. . the author must have been thinking of matt. i. : 'cum esset _desponsata_ mater eius maria ioseph.' . _al being thinges_, all things that exist. . _prophete_; david, in ps. xcvi. : (xcv. in the vulgate): 'omnes dii gentium daemonia.' . this refers back to ch. iv. - , ch. ix. , , . chap. x. . _last objeccion_; i.e. his poverty, see ch. iii. , iv. , ix. . - . imitated from ch. boeth. bk. i. pr. . - . . _sayd_, i.e. it is said of him. . _aver_, property, wealth; 'lo! how the false man, for the sake of his wealth, is accounted true!' . _dignitees_; cf. ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . . _were he out_, if he were not in office; cf. l. . - . cf. ch. boeth. bk. i. met. . - . thus, _slydinge chaunges_ in l. answers to chaucer's _slydinge fortune_ (l. ); and _that arn a fayr parcel of the erthe_, in l. , to _a fayr party of so grete a werk_ (l. ); and yet again, _thou that knittest_, in l. , to _what so ever thou be that knittest_ (l. ). - . from ch. boeth. bk. i. met . - . - . from the same; bk. ii. pr. . - . - . from the same; bk. ii. pr. . - . - . cf. the argument in the same; bk. iii. pr. . - . from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . for literal imitations, compare _the other haleth him to vertue by the hookes of thoughtes_ (l. - ) with chaucer's 'the contrarious fortune ... haleth hem ayein as with an hooke' (l. ); and _is nat a greet good ... for to knowe the hertes of thy sothfast frendes_ (ll. - ) with chaucer's 'wenest thou thanne that thou oughtest to leten this a litel thing, that this ... fortune hath discovered to thee the thoughtes of thy trewe frendes' (l. ). also ll. - with chaucer (ll. - ). . _let us singen_; in imitation of the metres in boethius, which break the prose part of the treatise at frequent intervals. cf. 'and bigan anon to singen right thus'; boeth. bk. iii. pr. . . book ii. chap. i. the initials of the fourteen chapters in this book give the words: virtw have merci. thynne has not preserved the right division, but makes _fifteen_ chapters, giving the words: virtw have mctrci. i have set this right, by making chap. xi begin with 'every.' thynne makes chapter xi begin with 'certayn,' p. , l. , and another chapter begin with 'trewly,' p. , l. . this cannot be right, because the latter word, 'trewly,' belongs to the last clause of a sentence; and the chapter thus beginning would have the unusually small number of lines. . chapter i really forms a prologue to the second book, interrupting our progress. at the end of book i we are told that love is about to sing, but her song begins with chap. ii. hence this first chapter must be regarded as a digression, in which the author reviews what has gone before (ll. - ), and anticipates what is to come (l. ). . _steering_, government (of god), _otherwysed_, changed, varied; an extraordinary form. , . _after as_, according as. _hildeth_, outpours. - . there is clearly much corruption in this unintelligible and imperfect sentence. the reference to 'the roman emperor' is mysterious. . _woweth_; so in thynne, but probably an error for _waweth_, i.e. move, shift; see _wa[gh]ien_ in stratmann. . _phane_, vane; cf. 'chaunging as a vane'; ch. c. t., e . . _irrecuperable_, irrecoverable; _irrecuperabilis_ is used by tertullian (lewis and short). . _armes_; this refers, possibly, to the struggle between the pope and anti-pope, after the year . - . _lovers clerk_, clerk of lovers; but perhaps an error for _loves clerk_; cf. troil. iii. . - . _ryder and goer_, rider on horseback and walker on foot. . translated from 'fides non habet meritum ubi humana ratio praebet experimentum'; as quoted in p. plowman, c. xii. . this is slightly altered from a saying of st. gregory (xl. homil. in evangelium, lib. ii. homil. )--'nec fides humana habet meritum cui humana ratio praebet experimentum.' see note to p. plowman (as above). . _as by a glasse_, as in a mirror; cor. xiii. . . _cockle_, tares. this seems to refer to the lollards, as puns upon the words _lollard_ and _lolia_ were very rife at this period. if so, the author had ceased to approve of lollard notions. in l. , _love_ seems to mean christian charity, in its highest sense; hence it is called, in l. , the most precious thing in nature. , . the passage seems corrupt, and i cannot quite see what is meant. perhaps read: 'with many eke-names, [and] that [to] other thinges that the soule [seketh after, men] yeven the ilke noble name.' the comma after _kynde_ in l. represents a down-stroke (equivalent to a comma) in thynne; but it is not wanted. . _to thee_, i.e. to the 'margaret of virtue' whose name appears as an acrostic at the head of the chapters in book i. and chapters i-v of book ii; moreover, we find at last that margaret signifies holy church, to which the treatise is accordingly dedicated. _tytled of loves name_, entitled the testament of love. . _inseëres_, lookers into it, readers. . _every thing_; with respect to everything to which appertains a cause which is wrought with a view to its accomplishment, aristotle supposes that the doing of everything is, in a manner, its final cause. 'final cause' is a technical term, explained in the new e. dict. as 'a term introduced into philosophical language by the schoolmen as a translation of aristotle's fourth cause, [greek: to hou heneka] or [greek: telos], the end or purpose for which a thing is done, viewed as the cause of the act; especially as applied in natural theology to the design, purpose, or end of the arrangements of the universe.' the phrase 'the end in view' comes near to expressing it, and will serve to explain 'a final cause' in the next clause. . _is finally to thilke ende_, is done with a view to that result. . after _so_, understand 'is it with regard to.' . _the cause_, the cause whereby i am directed, and that for which i ought to write it, are both alike noble. . _this leude_, &c.; i have set about learning this alphabet; for i cannot, as yet, go beyond counting up to three. . _in joininge_, &c.; by proceeding to the joining together of syllables. . _in bright whele_, in (its) bright circuit. chaucer has _wheel_ in the sense of orbit; hf. . . _another tretyse_. as to this proposed treatise nothing is known. perhaps it never was written. chap. ii. . _in latin_. this suggests that the present chapter may be adapted from some latin original; especially as the author only gives the _sentence_ or general drift of it. but the remark may mean nothing, and the tone of the chapter is wholly medieval. . _saturnes sphere_, saturn's orbit; the supposed outer boundary of the spheres of the seven planets. . _me have_, possess me (i.e. love), since love is the speaker; i.e. they think they can procure men's love by heaping up wealth. . perhaps place the comma after _sowed_ (sewn), not after _sakke_. . _pannes_, better spelt _panes_; see _pane_ in stratmann. from o.f. _pan_, _panne_, lat. _pannus_, a cloth, garment, robe. _mouled_, become mouldy; the very form from which the mod. e. _mould-y_ has been evolved; see _muwlen_ in stratmann, and _mouldy_ in my etym. dict. (supplement). _whicche_, chest, from a.s. _hwæcca_; see p. plowm. a. iv. , where some copies have _huche_, a hutch, a word of french origin. thus _pannes mouled in a whicche_ signifies garments that have become mouldy in a chest. see note to c. t., c . . _presse_, a clothes-press; observe the context. . _seventh_; perhaps an error for _thirde_; cf. 'percussa est tertia pars solis'; rev. viii. . he is referring to the primitive days of the church, when 'the pope went afoot.' . _defended_, forbade (opposed) those taxations. see _taylage_ in ch. glossary. . _maryed_, caused to be married; cf. p. plowman, b. vii. . . _symonye_, simony; cf. note to p. plowman, c. iii. . . observe the rimes: _achates, debates_; _wronges, songes_. . _for his wronges_, on account of the wrongs which he commits. _personer_, better _parsoner_ or _parcener_, participant, sharer; i.e. the steward, courtier, escheator, and idle minstrel, all get something. see _parcener_ in stratmann. . 'and each one gets his prebend (or share) all for himself, with which many thrifty people ought to profit.' . _behynde_, behindhand; even these wicked people are neglected, in comparison with the _losengeour_, or flatterer. . note the rimes, _forsake, take_. _it acordeth_, it agrees, it is all consistent; see note to l. below. . _at matins_; cf. p. plowm. c. i. , viii. . . _bene-breed_, bean-bread; cf. p. plowm. c. ix. . , . cf. p. plowman, c. vi. - . . _shete_, a sheet, instead of a napkin to cover the bread; _god_ refers to the eucharist. . _a clergion_, a chorister-boy; see ch. c. t., b , and the note. . _broken_, torn; as in p. plowm. b. v. , ix. . . _good houndes_; cf. p. plowm. c. vi. - . . _dolven_, buried; 'because they (the poor) always crave an alms, and never make an offering, they (the priests) would like to see them dead and buried.' . _legistres_, lawyers; 'legistres of bothe the lawes,' p. plowm. b. vii. . . 'for then wrong and force would not be worth a haw anywhere.' before _plesen_ something seems lost; perhaps read--'and [thou canst] plesen,' i.e. and you can please no one, unless those oppressive and wrong-doing lawyers are in power and full action.' . _ryme_, rime. the reference is not to actual jingle of rime, but to a proverb then current. in a poem by lydgate in ms. harl. (fol. ), beginning--'alle thynge in kynde desirith thynge i-like,' the refrain to every stanza runs thus:--'it may wele ryme, but it accordith nought'; see his minor poems, ed. halliwell, p. . the sense is that unlike things may be brought together, like riming words, but they will not on that account agree. so here: such things may seem, to all appearance, congruous, but they are really inconsistent. cf. note to l. above. . _beestly wit_, animal intelligence. . _cosinage_, those who are my relatives. . _behynde_, behindhand, in the rear. _passe_, to surpass, be prominent. . _comeden_ is false grammar for _comen_, came; perhaps it is a misprint. the reference is to gen. ix. : 'god shall enlarge japheth ... and canaan shall be his servant.' the author has turned _canaan_ into _cayn_, and has further confused canaan with his father ham! . _gentilesse_; cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - ; c. t., d . . _perdicas_, perdiccas, son of orontes, a famous general under alexander the great. this king, on his death-bed, is said to have taken the royal signet-ring from his finger and to have given it to perdiccas. after alexander's death, perdiccas held the chief authority under the new king arrhidaeus; and it was really arrhidaeus (not perdiccas) who was the son of a _tombestere_, or female dancer, and of philip of macedonia; so that he was alexander's half brother. the dancer's name was philinna, of larissa. in the romance of alexander, the dying king bequeaths to perdiccas the kingdom of greece; cf. note to bk. iii. c. ii. l. . hence the confusion. . copied from ch. boeth. bk. iii. met. :--'al the linage of men that ben in erthe ben of semblable birthe. on allone is fader of thinges.... why noisen ye or bosten of your eldres? for yif thou loke your biginninge, and god your auctor and maker,' &c. . _one_; i.e. the virgin mary. . after _secte_, supply _i_:--'that, in any respect, i may so hold an opinion against her sex.' _secte_ is properly 'suite'; but here means _sex_; cf. l. . . _in hem_, in them, i.e. in women. and so in l. . chap. iii. . _victorie of strength_; because, according to the first book of esdras, iv. , , women are the strongest of all things. . _esdram_, accus. of esdras, with reference to the first book of esdras, called 'liber esdrae tertius' in the vulgate. , . _whos lordship al lignes_. something is lost here; _lordship_ comes at the end of a line; perhaps the insertion of _passeth_ will give some sort of sense; _whos lordship [passeth] al lignes_, whose lordship surpasses all lines. but _lignes_ is probably a corrupt reading. . _who is_, i.e. who is it that? the vulgate has: 'quis est ergo qui dominatur eorum? nonne mulieres genuerunt regem,' &c. but the a. v. has: 'who is it then that ruleth them, or hath the lordship over them? are they not women? women have borne the king,' &c. this translates a text in which _mulieres_ has been repeated. - . from esdras, iv. - : 'women have borne the king and all the people that bear rule by sea and land. even of them came they: and they nourished them up that planted the vineyards, from whence the wine cometh. these also make garments [lat. _stolas_] for men; these bring glory unto men; and without women cannot men be.' - . adapted from esdras, iv. , . . 'that by no way can they refuse his desire to one that asks well.' . _of your sectes_, of your followers, of those of your sex. cf. chap. . above, and the note. . _wenen_, imagine that your promises are all gospel-truth; cf. legend of good women, (earlier version). . _so maked_; 'and that (i.e. the male sex) is so made sovereign and to be entreated, that was previously servant and used the voice of prayer.' men begin by entreating, and women then surrender their sovereignty. . _trewe_; used ironically; i.e. untrue. , . _what thing to women it is_, what a thing it is for women. ll. - are borrowed, sometimes word for word, from ch. hf. - . see note to l. below, and the introduction, § . . 'all that glisters is not gold'; see ch. c. t., g , and the note. but it is here copied from ch. hf. . . _whistel_, pipe. cf. note to p. plowm. b. xv. . . _is put_, i.e. she (each one of them) is led to suppose. , . copied from ch. hf. - . . _they_, i.e. women; cf. l. . so also in l. . . _ye_, i.e. ye men; so also _you_ in l. . - . expanded from ch. hf. - ; observe how some phrases are preserved. . 'faciamus ei adiutorium simile sibi'; gen. ii. . . _this tree_, i.e. eve, womankind. so in l. . . 'what is heaven the worse, though saracens lie concerning it?' . _dames_, mothers; cf. ch. boeth. bk. ii. met. . - . . _way_, path; _it lightly passe_, easily go along it. . this proverb is copied from ch. hf. - ; just as the proverb in l. is from the same, l. . compare p. , ll. - . - . obscure; and apparently imperfect. chap. iv. . either _my_ or _to me_ should be struck out. - . from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . - . from the same, - . - . _by wayes of riches_; cf. _richesses_ in ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . ; so also _dignite_ answers to _digne_ of _reverence_ in the same, l. ; _power_ occurs in the same, l. ; and _renomè_ answers to _renoun_ in l. . . _wening me_, seeing that i supposed. . _turneth_; 'it goes against the hair.' we now say--'against the grain.' . the words between square brackets must be supplied. . _holden for absolute_, considered as free, separate, or detached; as in ch. boeth. bk. v. pr. . . . _leveth in_, there remain in, i.e. remain for consideration, remain to be considered. when 'bestial' living is set aside, 'manly' and 'resonable' are left. . _riches_, &c.; from boethius. see _riches_ discussed in ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. ; _dignitè_, in pr. ; _renomè_, or fame, in pr. ; and _power_, along with _dignitè_, in pr. . . _as a litel assay_, as if for a short trial, for a while. . _songedest_, didst dream; from f. _songer_. i know of no other example of this verb in english. however, langland has _songewarie_, interpretation of dreams, p. plowman, c. x. . . _thy king_; presumably, richard ii; cf. l. . . _to oblige_, to subject thy body to deeds of arms, to offer to fight judicially; as already said above; cf. bk. i. c. . . . 'love and the bliss already spoken of above (cf. 'the parfit blisse of love,' bk. ii. c. . ) shall be called "the knot" in the heart.' this definition of "the knot," viz. as being the perfect bliss or full fruition of love, should be noted; because, in later chapters, the author continually uses the phrase "the knot," without explaining what he means by it. it answers to 'sovereyn blisfulnesse' in chaucer's boethius. . _inpossession_ is all one word, but is clearly an error. the right word is certainly _imposition_. the lat. _impositio_ was a grammatical term, used by varro, signifying the _imposing_ of a name, or the application of a name to an object; and the same sense of o.f. _imposition_ appears in a quotation given by godefroy. it is just the word required. when love declares that she shall give the name of "the knot" to the perfect bliss of love, the author replies, 'i shall well understand the application of this name,' i.e. what you mean by it; cf. l. . . _a goddes halfe_, lit. on the side of god; with much the same sense as in god's name; see ch. c. t., d . chap. v. . _richesse_ is singular; it was probably thynne who put the following verbs into plural forms. . _aristotle_. perhaps the reference is to the nicomachean ethics, i. . - . the argument is from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . , . , . from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - . . cf. 'why embracest thou straunge goodes as they weren thyne?' ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . . - . from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - . - . from the same; ll. - ; - . chap. vi. suggested by ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - . from the same, , ; - ; - . . _dignites ... is as the sonne_; the verb _is_ agrees with the latter substantive _sonne_. - . from the same as above, - ; the author substitutes _wilde fyre_ for chaucer's _flaumbe of ethna_. . cf. ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - . . perhaps read _dignitè in suche thing tene y-wrought_; 'as dignity in such a case wrought harm, so, on the contrary, the substance in dignity, being changed, rallied (so as) to bring in again a good condition in its effect.' obscure. 'dignities' are further discussed in boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . . _nero_. the name was evidently suggested by the mention of nero immediately after the end of boeth. bk. iii. pr. (viz. in met. ); but the story of nero killing his mother is from an earlier passage in boethius, viz. bk. ii. met. . . _king john_. by asserting his 'dignity' as king against prince arthur, he brought about a war in which the greater part of the french possessions of the crown were lost. . _nedeth in a person_, are necessary for a man. . _such maner planettes_, planets such as those; referring to the sun and moon mentioned just above; ll. , . the sun and moon were then accounted as being among the seven planets. - . 'that have any desire for such (ill) shining planets to appear any more in that way.' - . _i not_, i do not know. _and thou see_, if thou shouldst see. cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . - . from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . . _besmyteth_, contaminates, defiles. note that the author is here reproducing chaucer's _bispotten and defoulen_ (pr. . ). the word is noted in stratmann, because the a.s. _besm[=i]tan_, in this sense, occurs in mark, vii. . the form _besmitten_ is commoner, four examples of it being given in the new e. dict., s.v. _besmit_. the verb _besmite_ has escaped recognition there, because the present passage has not been noted. so also, in the next line, _smyteth_ has a like sense. _smitted_ occurs in troilus, v. . . _fyr_, fire; from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . . - . from the same; ll. - . . the sentence is incomplete and gives no sense; probably a clause has dropped out after the word _goodnesse_. i cannot set it right. - . imitated from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . - . suggested by the same; ll. - . . cf. 'leve hem in [_or_ on] thy lift hand'; p. plowman, c. viii. . chap. vii. suggested by ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . . _nero_; from the same, bk. iii. met. . , . . _ensamples_; answers to _ensaumples_ in the same, bk. iii. pr. . . . _henry curtmantil_, henry ii. 'henry short mantell, or henry the seconde'; fabyan, ed. ellis, p. . 'in his fifty-fifth year he thus miserably expired, and his son geoffrey of lincoln with difficulty found any one to attend to his funeral; the attendants had all fled away with everything valuable that they could lay their hands on'; miss yonge, cameos from english history ( ); p. . . copied _without material alteration_ from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . . _power of rëalmes_; from the same, l. . - . copied, in part literally, from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . - . from the same; ll. - . - . cf. 'holdest thou thanne thilke man be mighty, that thou seest that he wolde don that he may nat don?' the same; ll. - . . _overthrowen_ would be better grammar. - . from the same prose, ll. - . . _warnisshed_, guarded. _warnishe,_ guard; _the hour of warnishe_, the time of his being guarded. . _famulers_, household servants; borrowed from chaucer's _familieres_ in the same prose, l. . . _sypher_, cipher in arithmetic. though in itself it signifies nothing, yet appended to a preceding figure it gives that figure a tenfold value. cf. richard the redeless, iv. - :-- 'than satte summe as siphre doth in awgrym that noteth a place, and no-thing availeth.' . _the blynde_; alluding to a common fable. - . from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . - ; - . from the same; ll. - . - . from the same, ll. - . - . from ch. boeth. bk. iii. met. . - . here the author suddenly dashes off to another book of boethius; see bk. ii. pr. . - . . _buserus_; chaucer has _busirides_ in his text of boethius, bk. ii. pr. . (whose text our author here follows); but _busirus_ in the monkes tale, b . the true name is _busiris_, of which _busiridis_ is the genitive case. chaucer evolved the form _busirides_ out of the accusative _busiridem_ in boethius. see note in vol. ii. p. . . _hugest_; substituted for the example of regulus in boethius. hugest is probably an error for hengest, i.e. hengist. the story of his slaughter of the britons at stonehenge by a shameful treachery is famous; he certainly 'betrayed many men.' see fabyan, ed. ellis, p. ; rob. of gloucester, l. (ed. hearne, p. ). the story of his death is not inconsistent with the text. rob. of gloucester, at l. (ed. hearne, p. ) tells how he was suddenly seized, in a battle, by eldol, earl of gloucester, who cried out for help; many came to his assistance, and hengist was taken alive. shortly afterwards, at the instance of eldad, bishop of gloucester, eldol led him out of the town of corneboru, and smote his head off. eldad's verdict was:-- 'also doth by this mon that so moche wo ath y-do, so mony child y-mad faderles, dighteth him al-so.' the name of his betrayer or capturer is given as _collo_ in our text; but proper names take so many forms that it is not much to go by. thus, the very name which is given as _eldol_ in one ms. of robert of gloucester (l. ) appears as _cadel_ in another. fabyan calls him _edolf_ (p. ), and makes him earl of chester. layamon (ed. madden, ii. ) calls him _aldolf_. . 'omnes enim, qui acceperint gladium, gladio peribunt'; matt. xxvi. . . _huisht_, hushed, silent; cf. _hust_ in ch. boeth. bk. ii. met. . . - . cf. the same, bk. iv. pr. . - . . 'but then, as for him who could make you wretched, if he wished it, thou canst not resist it.' the sentence appears to be incomplete. . _flye_, fly; substituted for chaucer's _mous_; see his boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - . - . from the same, ll. - . - . _why there_, i.e. 'wherefore (viz. by help of these things) there is no way,' &c. cf. 'now is it no doute thanne that thise weyes ne ben a maner misledinges to blisfulnesse'; ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . chap. viii. . _renomè_, renown; answering to _glori_ and _renoun_ in ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . , . but there is not much imitation of chaucer in the former part of this chapter. . _abouten_, round about; i.e. you have proved a contradiction. . _acorden_, agree; _by lacking_, with respect to blame and praise. . _elementes_, the four elements. sir t. elyot's castel of helthe ( ) presents the usual strange medieval notions on medicine. he begins by saying that we must consider the things natural, the things not natural, and the things against nature. the things natural are seven, viz. elements, complexions, humours, members, powers, operations, and spirits. 'the elementes be those originall thynges vnmyxt and vncompounde, of whose temperance and myxture all other thynges, hauynge corporalle substance, be compacte: of them be foure, that is to saye, erthe, water, ayre, and fyre. erthe is the moost grosse and ponderouse element, and of her proper nature is _colde_ and _drye_. water is more subtyll and lyght thanne erthe, but in respect of ayre and fyre, it is grosse and heuye, and of hir proper nature is _colde_ and _moyste_. ayre is more lyghte and subtylle than the other two, and beinge not altered with any exteriour cause, is properly _hotte_ and _moyste_. fyre is absolutely lyght and clere, and is the clarifier of other elementes, if they be vyciate or out of their naturall temperaunce, and is properly _hotte_ and _drye_.' cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. met. . - . . _oned_, united; see the last note. . _erthe_ (see the footnote) is an obvious error for _eyre_; so also in l. . but the whole of the argument is ridiculous. - . copied from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . from the andromache of euripides, l. ; see the note in vol. ii. p. . - . from chaucer, as above, ll. - . - . from the same, ll. - . . _obstacles_; they are enumerated in bk. i. c. . l. (p. ). - ; - . from chaucer, bk. iii. pr. . ll. - . . i do not know the source of this saying. cf. c.t., d - . - . from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . - . _fayre and foule_, handsome and ugly men; _hewe_, beauty. - . _thilke--knotte_; equivalent to 'they ne ben nat weyes ne pathes that bringen men to blisfulnesse'; ch., as above, ll. - . . cf. 'but alday fayleth thing that fooles wenden'; certainly the right reading of troil. i. ; see note on the line; vol. ii. p. . . _the sterre_, the star of the southern pole; so in the next line, the northern pole-star. . _out-waye-going_, going out of the way, error of conduct; which may be called, as it were, 'imprisonment,' or 'banishment.' it is called _deviacion_ in bk. iii. ch. i. , which see. . _falsed_, proved false, gave way. . cf. 'it suffyseth that i have shewed hiderto the forme of false welefulness'; ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . . with line , cf. the same, ll. - . chap. ix. - . cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . . the 'harmony' or music of the spheres; see troil. v. - ; parl. foules, - , and the note in vol. i. p. . - . _sugre ... soot_; cf. 'sucre be or soot,' troil. iii. ; and 'in her hony galle'; c. t., b . . _flebring_; omitted in the new e. dict., as being a false form; there is no such word. mr. bradley suggests _flekring_ or _flekering_, which is probable enough. the m.e. _flekeren_, also spelt _flikeren_, meant not only to flutter, but to be in doubt, to vacillate, and even to caress. we may take it to mean 'light speech' or 'gossip.' . 'good and yvel ben two contraries'; ch. boeth. bk. iv. pr. . . . _in that mores_, in the possession of that greater thing. - . cf. l. below. hence the sense is: 'and that thing which belongs to it (i.e. to the knot) ought to incline to its superior cause out of honour and good-will.' but it is clumsy enough; and even to get this sense (which seems to have been that intended) we must alter _mores_ to _more_. the form was probably miswritten _mores_ here owing to the occurrence of _mores_ just above (l. ) and just below (l. ). it proceeds thus:--'otherwise, it is rebellious, and ought to be rejected from protection by its superior.' . from troil. iii. - . - . perhaps the finest passage in the treatise, but not very original. cf. p. plowman, c. xxi. - ; ch. boeth. bk. iv. met. . - . . cf. 'ones a yere al thinges renovelen'; ch. c. t., i . . cf. 'to be gayer than the heven'; book of the duch. . . imitated from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - ; but with the substitution of 'garmentes' for 'tonnes.' . _proverbe_, proverb. 'when bale is hext (highest), then bote is next'; proverbs of hending; see notes to gamelyn, ll. , , in vol. v. pp. , . for _hext_ our author substitutes _a nyebore_, i.e. a neighbour, nigh at hand. . the truth of astrology is here assumed. - . i suspect that this account of the days of the week (though no doubt familiar in those days to many) was really copied from chaucer's treatise on the astrolabe, part ii. sect. (vol. iii. p. ). for it contains a remarkable blunder. the word _noon_ in l. should, of course, be _midnight_; but, as chaucer omits to say when the first planetary hour of the day occurs, the author was left to himself in regard to this point. few people understand _why_ the day after sunday must needs be monday; yet it is very simple. the principle is given in the footnote to vol. iii. p. (cf. vol. v. p. ), but may here be stated a little more plainly. the earth being taken as the centre of the planetary system, the planets are arranged in the order of the radii of their orbits. the nearest planet is the moon, then mercury, venus, the sun, mars, jupiter, and saturn. these were arranged by the astrologers in the _reverse_ order; viz. saturn, jupiter, mars, sun, venus, mercury, moon; after which the rotation began over again, saturn, jupiter, mars, &c.; as before. if we now divide sunday into twenty-four hours, and assign the _first_ of these to the sun, the _second_ to venus (next in rotation), the _third_ to mercury, and so on, the _eighth_ hour will again fall to the sun, and so will the _fifteenth_ and the _twenty-second_. consequently, the _twenty-third_ (like the _second_) belongs to venus, the _twenty-fourth_ to mercury, and the _twenty-fifth_ to the moon. but the twenty-fifth hour is the first hour of the new day, which is therefore the day of the moon. and so throughout. since the twenty-second hour belongs to the sun, and the twenty-fifth to the moon, the planetary interval from day to day is really obtained by pitching upon every _third_ planet in the series, i.e. by skipping two. hence the order of ruling planets for each day (which rule depends upon the assignment of the _first_ hour) is obviously--the sun, the moon, mars, mercury, jupiter, venus, saturn; or, in anglo-saxon terminology, the sun, the moon, t[=i]w, w[=o]den, thunor (thur), frige, and sætern (sæter). . cf. 'here wo into wele wende mote atte laste'; p. plowman, c. xxi. . see notes to ch. . below, and bk. i. . . . cf. troil. iv. , and the note (vol. ii. p. ). . _slawe_, slain; the usual expression; cf. compl. of mars, ; compl. unto pitè, . chap. x. - . cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - ; pr. . - . . _three lyves_; as mentioned above, bk. ii. ch. . - . . _firste sayde_; viz. in bk. ii. ch. . . - . borrowed from ch. boeth. bk. iii. met. . . _a fair parcel_. similarly, boethius recites his former good fortune; bk. ii. pr. . - . . he insists that he was only a servant of conspirators; he would have nothing to do with the plot (l. ); yet he repented of it (l. ); and it is clear that he betrayed it (bk. i. ch. . l. ). . _farn_, for _faren_, fared. _fortune_; cf. the complaints of boethius, bk. i. met. . ; pr. . ; bk. ii. met. . - . from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - . - . from the same; bk. ii. pr. . ; pr. . . - . from the same; pr. . - . - . from the same; pr. . - . . _both_, booth; chaucer has _tabernacle_; pr. . . - ; - . from the same; bk. ii. pr. . - . - . from the same; ll. - . . here begins a new chapter in thynne; with a large capital c. see note to book ii. ch. i. - . from ch. boeth. bk. ii. pr. . - . . 'the soules of men ne mowe nat deyen in no wyse'; the same, ll. - . . _oon of three_; see ch. . above (p. ). chap. xi. - . not in character; the author forgets that love is supposed to be the speaker, and speaks in his own person. - . from ch. boeth. bk. iii. met. . - , - ; pr. ix. - , - ; somewhat varied. . _over his soule_; cf. 'but only upon his body'; the same, bk. ii. pr. . . - . the general idea corresponds with the same, bk. iii. pr. . i observe no verbal resemblance. . thynne begins a new chapter here, with a large capital t. see note to bk. ii. ch. i. . _plato_. this story is told of socrates, and is given in the note to c. t., i , in vol. v. p. ; from seneca, de ira, lib. i. c. . . _conclude_ seems here to mean 'include,' as in c. t., g . . _habit ... monk_; 'cucullus non facit monachum'; a common medieval proverb; see rom. rose, , and the note. . _cordiacle_ is thynne's misprint for _cardiacle_; cf. 'that i almost have caught a cardiacle'; c.t., c . chap. xii. . _in place_, i.e. present; _chafinge_, warming. . _neigheth_, approaches; _and it ... be_, if it can be. . _donet_, primer, elementary book of instruction; named from _donatus_, the grammarian; see note to p. plowman, c. vii. . . _muskle_; referring to bk. i. ch. . . . _excellence of coloures_, its (outward) blue colour. blue was the emblem of constancy and truth; see note to c. t., f (vol. v. p. ). for _coloures_ we should rather read _colour_; the same error occurs in l. below (see footnote). . 'when pleasant weather is above.' . 'betokening steadfastness (continuance) in peace'; cf. note to l. above. . the following is pliny's account of the pearl, as translated by holland; bk. ix. c. . 'this shell-fish which is the mother of pearle, differs not much in the manner of breeding and generation from the oysters; for when the season of the yeare requireth that they should engender, they seeme to yawne and gape, and so do open wide; and then (by report) they conceive a certaine moist dew as seed, wherewith they swell and grow big; ... and the fruit of these shell-fishes are the pear[l]es, better or worse, great or small, according to the qualitie and quantitie of the dew which they receiued. for if the dew were pure and cleare which went into them, then are the pearles white, faire, and orient: but if grosse and troubled, the pearles likewise are dimme, foule, and duskish; ... according as the morning is faire, so are they cleere; but otherwise, if it were misty and cloudy, they also will be thicke and muddy in colour.' . the sense of _margaryte_ in _this_ passage is the visible church of christ, as the context shews. in book iii. ch. . , the author tells us that it signifies 'grace, lerning, or wisdom of god, or els _holy church_.' . _mekenesse_, humility; cf. l. . the church is descended from christ, who is the heavenly dew. . _reduced in-to good_, connected with good; _mene_, intermediate. . _beestes_, living things that cannot move; the very word used by chaucer, boeth. bk. v. pr. . ; compare the passage. . there is something wrong; either _discendeth_ should be _discended_, or we should understand _and_ before _to_; and perhaps _downe_ should be _dewe_; cf. l. . the reference seems to be to the incarnation. . here the protean word _margaryte_ means 'the wisdom of god,' judging by the context; see note to l. above. . this does not mean 'i would have explained it better,' but 'i should like to have it better explained.' . _margaryte_ here means the visible church, as before (l. ); to the end of the chapter. . _welde_, possess; and all that he now possesses is his life. . _yvel spekers_; this seems to allude to the lollards, who ought (he says) to be 'stopped and ashamed.' . this shews that margarete does not mean a woman; for it is declared to be as precious as a woman, to whom it is likened. . _deedly_, mortal. hence margarete does not mean the church in general, but the visible church at the time of writing, the church militant. chap. xiii. . 'to be evil, is to be nothing.' the general argument follows ch. boeth. bk. iv. pr. . - , and pr. . . _a this halfe_, on this side of, under; cf. note to bk. i. ch. . . . _determinison_, determination; a correct form. cf. _venison_ from lat. acc. _uenationem_. accordingly, the o.f. forms were _determinaison_, _-eson_, _-oison_, as given by godefroy. he supplies the example: 'definicio, difinicion ou _determineson_,' from an old glossary. hence _determination_ is here used in the sense of 'definition,' as is obvious from the context. thynne prints _determission_, which makes nonsense; and there is no such word. the present passage is entered in the new e. dict. under _determission_, with the suggestion that it is an error; it might have been better to enter it under _determinison_ (or _-eson_); but it is always difficult to know how to deal with these mistakes of printers and editors. . _your-selfe sayd_; referring to l. above. . _y-sayd good_, called 'good.' . _participacion_; from ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . . . _austen_, st. augustin; and so pope, essay on man, i. :--'one truth is clear, whatever is, is right.' . _boece_, boethius; whom the author here mentions just once more; see his former allusion in bk. i. prologue, . the reference is to bk. iii. pr. . - . . _apeted to_, sought after, longed for, desired. _apete_ is a correct form, as it represents an o.f. _*apeter_; but the usual o.f. form is _appeter_ (littré, s.v. _appéter_), from lat. _appetere_. see new e. dict., s.v. _appete_, where a quotation is given from chaucer, l. g. w. . but the right reading in that line is surely _appetyteth_, as _appeteth_ will not scan; unless we strongly accent the initial _as_. see vol. ii. p. , l. and footnote, and the note to the line, at p. . . _this_ stands for _this is_, as usual; see notes to c. t., a , e . . _betterer_, better; not necessarily a misprint. the form _bettyrer_ occurs in the catholicon anglicum. . _his kyndely place_, its natural position; cf. ch. boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . . _blacke_; cf. troil. i. . . _yeven by the ayre_, endowed by the air with little goodness and virtue; because the dew that produced the pearl fell through the air; see note to ch. xii. above. hence _matier_ is material, viz. the dew. . _unpees_, war. the general argument, with the contrast of colours above mentioned, occurs in p. plowman, c. xxi. - ; cf. also ll. - . of these lines, ll. and have already been explicitly cited above: see notes to bk. i. ch. . , and to bk. ii. ch. . . . _pallas_; we should have expected 'minerva'; however, _pallas_ occurs five times in troilus. . _and mercurie_, if mercury; but it is obscure. . _a dewe and a deblys_. under _adieu_, in the new e. dict., we find: '_fig._ an expression of regret at the loss or departure of anything; or a mere exclamatory recognition of its disappearance; = away, no longer, no more, all is over with. _c._ _test. love_ ii. ( ) / . adewe and adewe blis.' something has gone wrong here; the edition of (not ) has, at fol. , back (not ) the reading 'a dewe and a deblis'; as in the text. the same reading occurs in all the earlier black-letter editions and in chalmers; there being no other authority except thynne. i do not understand the passage; the apparent sense is: 'his name is given _a dieu_ and to devils'; i.e. (i suppose) is renounced. _deblis_ for 'devils' is a possible form; at any rate, we find _deblet_, _deblerie_, for _devilet_ and _diablerie_; see new e. dict., under _dablet_ and _deblerie_. - . 'that which is good, seems to me to be wholly good.' this is extremely significant. 'the church is good, and therefore wholly good,' is evidently intended. in other words, it needs no reform; the lollards should let it alone. in ch. . , he plainly speaks of 'heretics,' and of the errors of 'mismeninge people.' . _leve_, believe. l. shews that he hopes for mercy and pity; we may safely conclude that he had been a lollard once. cf. ch. . - . chap. xiv. . _proverbes_. he refers to prov. vii. - : 'considero uecordem iuuenem, qui ... graditur in obscuro, in noctis tenebris; et ecce occurrit illi mulier ornatu meretricio, praeparata ad capiendas animas, garrula et uaga, quietis impatiens ... dicens ... ueni, inebriemur uberibus, et fruamur cupitis amplexibus ... statim eam sequitur quasi bos ductus ad uictimam.' . _skleren and wimplen_, veil and cover over. he probably found the word _skleire_, a veil, in p. plowman, c. ix. (cf. also b. vi. , a. vii. ), as that is the only known example of the substantive. the verb occurs here only. other spellings of _skleire_, sb., in the mss., are _sklayre_, _scleyre_, _slaire_, _skleir_, _sleire_, _sleyre_. cf. du. _sluier_, g. _schleier_. . _by experience_; i.e. the author had himself been inclined to 'heresy'; he was even in danger of 'never returning' (l. ). . _weyved_, rejected; he had rejected temptations to lollardry. . _shewed thee thy margarite_; meaning (i suppose) shewn thee the excellence of the church as it is. . _siloë_, siloam. it is a wonder where the author found this description of the waters of the pool of siloam; but i much suspect that it arose from a gross misunderstanding of isaiah, viii. , , thus:--'the waters of shiloah that go softly ... shall come up over all his channels, and go over all his banks.' in the vulgate: 'aquas siloë, quae uadunt cum silentio ... ascendet super omnes riuos eius, et fluet super uniuersas ripas eius.' hence _cankes_ in l. is certainly an error for _bankes_; the initial _c_ was caught from the preceding _circuit_. . after _mercurius_ supply _servaunts_ or _children_. the children or servants of mercury mean the clerks or writers. the expression is taken from ch. c. t., d :-- 'the children of mercurie and of venus ben in hir wirking ful contrarious.' . _veneriens_, followers of venus; taken from ch. c. t., d . . _that ben fallas_; that is to say, deceptions. see _fallace_ in the new e. dict. . _sote of the smoke_, soot of the smoke of the fire prepared for the sacrificed ox; 'bos ductus ad uictimam'; prov. vii. . . _it founde_, didst find it; referring, apparently, to _thy langoring deth_. - . _thilke margaryte_, the church; by serving which he was to be delivered from danger, by means of his amendment. . _disese_, misery, discomfort; because he had to do penance. . he had formerly sinned against the church. . 'and yet thou didst expect to have been rejected for ever.' . _lache_, loosen (it); from o.f. _lascher_, to loosen, relax. or it may mean 'turn cowardly.' . 'inueni dauid seruum meum; oleo sancto meo unxi eum'; ps. lxxxix. (lxxxviii. , vulgate). . _openly_; hence the author had publicly recanted. book iii. chap. i. this chapter is really a prologue to the third book. . _discrete_, separate; _tellinge_, counting. . _three_ was considered a perfect number; see below. . time was divided into three ages; first, the age of error, before the coming of christ; all that died then went to hell, whence some were rescued by christ when he descended thither. the second, the age of grace, from the time of christ's coming till his second advent. the third, the age of joy, enduring for ever in heaven. _deviacion_; thynne prints _demacion_, an obvious error for _deuiacion_ (_m_ for _ui_); in l. , it is replaced by _errour of misgoinge_, which has the same sense, and in bk. ii. ch. . , it is called _out-waye-going_. the new e. dict. has no quotation for _deviation_ older than ; but here we find it. . i. e. book i treats of error or deviation; book ii, of grace; and book iii, of joy. . _whiche is faylinge without desert_, which is failure without merit; these words are out of place here, and perhaps belong to the preceding clause (after _shewed_ in l. ). _thilke_, &c.; amending that first fault. . perhaps for _and_ read _an_; it refers to guidance into the right path. . he says that the english alter the name _margarite-perle_ into _margery-perle_, whereas latin, french, and many other languages keep the true form. cf. lat. _margarita_, o.f. _marguerite_, _margarete_, gk. [greek: margaritês], pers. _marw[=a]r[=i]d_, arab. _marj[=a]n_; all from skt. _manjar[=i]_, a pearl. . _the more britayne_, greater britain (england and scotland), as distinguished from lesser britain (brittany); see note to bk. ii. ch. . above. pliny says (tr. by holland, bk. ix. c. ):--'in brittaine it is certain that some [pearls] do grow; but they be small, dim of colour, and nothing orient.' . _conninge_, certain knowledge; _opinion_, uncertain knowledge, supposition; as he proceeds to say. . we thus learn that it was at this date an open question, whether the sun was bigger than the earth; there were some who imagined it to be so. . he here mentions the _quadrivium_, or group of four of the seven sciences, viz. arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy; see note to p. plowman, c. xii. . . these are the four cardinal virtues, prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude; see note to p. plowman, c. i. . . why 'two things' are mentioned, is not clear. it was usual to introduce here the _trivium_, or second group of the seven arts (see note to l. ); which contained logic, grammar, and rhetoric. for the two former he has substituted 'art,' the general term. . _twey_, two; viz. _natural_ and _reasonable_; cf. l. . the third is _moral_. hence we have the following scheme. { _natural_: the quadrivium. { relating to the body { philosophy { { _reasonable_: the trivium. { { relating to the soul: _moral_: the cardinal virtues. { law: _natural_. { { right: _reasonable_. law { { { written: _constitution_. { custom { { unwritten: _usage_. . i. e. 'so that harm, (as punishment) for harm, should restrain evil-doers by the bridle of fear.' . _contrarioustee of_, that which is contrary to. . _and unworthy_, even if they be unworthy. _professe and reguler_; the 'professed' were such as, after a year of probation, had been received into a monastic order; the 'regular' were such as were bound by the three monastic vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. . _obediencer_, bound by obedience; used adjectivally; cf. low lat. _obedientiarius_. . thus the author was himself bound by monastic vows, and was one of the 'regular' clergy. - . _abouten_, about (me), near at hand. _eche_, to increase, lengthen. . _refrete_, refrain, burden of a song; o.f. _refrait_, _refret_ (godefroy). 'sobs are a ready (ever-present) refrain in its meditations'; where _his_ (its) refers to _goost_, or spirit, in l. . - . _comming about i not than_, recurring i know not when. for _than_ read _whan_, to make sense. . _he_, christ; referring to matt. xxi. . . _whos spirit_; 'spiritus ubi uult spirat'; john, iii. ; 'spiritus, diuidens singulis prout uult'; cor. xii. . . _wyte that_, lay the blame for that upon. such is the right idiom; cf. 'wyte it the ale of southwerk, i yow preye'; ch. c. t., a . thynne prints _with_ for _wite_ or _wyte_, making nonsense of the passage. chap. ii. . _lybel of departicion_, bill (or writ) of separation; taken from _libellum repudii_ in matt. v. , which wyclif translates by 'a libel of forsakyng.' . 'i find, in no law, (provision for) recompensing and rewarding in a bounteous way, those who are guilty, according to their deserts.' . _paulyn_, paulinus. but there is some mistake. perhaps he refers to l. aemilius paulus, brother of m. aemilius lepidus the triumvir. this paulus was once a determined enemy of caesar, but was won over to his side by a large bribe. - . i cannot explain or understand this clause; something seems to be omitted, to which it refers. . julius caesar was accounted as following cato in justice. the statement is obscure. . perdiccas, according to the romances, succeeded alexander the great; see note to bk. ii. c. . . i do not find the anecdote referring to porus. it is not improbable that the author was thinking of philip the physician, who revealed to alexander 'a privy hate' entertained against that monarch by parmenion; see the wars of alexander, ed. skeat, - . . _right as mater_. cf. 'sicut ad formam de forma procedere materiam notum est'; an often quoted passage in guido delle colonne's historia troiae; see note to legend of good women, (vol. iii. p. ). . _and right_, if right-doing were not in the original working. . _muste do good nedes_, must necessarily do good. . _ende_, object. the reference seems to be to aristotle, nicomachean ethics, bk. i. c. , c. , or c. . . _goodly_, with a good motive. in l. , it simply means 'a good motive.' . _praysing ne lacking_, praise nor blame. . the latin would be _nemo inuite beatus_; but i do not know where to find it. . _free arbitrement_, lat. liberum arbitrium; introduced in order to lead up to a discussion of free will, necessity, and providence; as in boeth. bk. v. . _closing_, including, implying. - . cf. ch. boeth. bk. v. pr. . - . chap. iii. cf. ch. boeth. bk. v. pr. and pr. . . cf. the same, pr. iii. , and the context. . _for i love_, i.e. because (or since) i love. . _commende_, coming; probably the original ms. had _command_, the northern form. we have a similar form _lykende_, in l. below. in ll. , , the usual form _comming_ appears. - . in many places, _comming_ is used nearly with the sense of 'future'; cf. ll. - . . here again we have the usual ridiculous contradictions; the sense is--'being wet, i burn; without wasting, i fade.' cf. rom. rose, eng. version, - . . thynne has (here and in ch. . , p. ) _vnbyde_, an obvious error for _onbyde_, i.e. abide, remain; see ch. . , . . 'god grant (that) that thing may soon draw nigh to thee.' _neigh_ is here a verb, as in bk. ii. ch. . . . _that_, that which; _with nothing_, yet not so as to be constrained by anything else. . _rysinge of the sonne_, rising of the sun; this example is borrowed from ch. boeth. bk. v. pr. . , . chap. iv. cf. ch. boeth. bk. v. pr. . - . . _and nedeful is_, 'and it is necessary that, in order to desire (a thing), he may also _not_ desire (it)'; otherwise, he does not make any choice. - . the words 'but thilke ... the same to wilne' are _repeated_ in thynne's edition, to the destruction of the sense. . _as now_, present; cf. boeth. bk. v. pr. . - . - . a clear case of reasoning in a circle. . 'constituisti terminos eius, qui praeteriri non poterunt'; job, xiv. . - . see rom. viii. , . _conformes_; the vulgate has: 'nam quos praesciuit, et praedestinauit _conformes_ fieri imaginis filii sui.' . cf. ch. boeth. bk. v. pr. . , - . . cf. the same, - , - , &c. . referring to ll. - above. . _close and one_, are closed and united; here _close_ and _one_ seem to be verbs. . _by_, with reference to. - . _no art_, in no way (?); but surely an error for _nat_, as _wrytest nat_ is repeated in l. . . _defendeth_, 'forbids something to be movable,' &c. . too obscure to deserve the encomium for perspicuity which follows in ll. - . . _for right_, &c.; 'for nothing at all exists there (i.e. in eternity) after the manner of that which is temporal.' . _ben to ben_, are to come because of god's knowledge. . _philosophical poete_; chaucer, because he translated the consolation of philosophy, and introduced passages from it into his poem of troilus, notably in book iv. - , - . in l. , troilus is expressly mentioned. most likely, the allusion is to bk. iv. - ; although this deals rather with predestination than with the origin of evil. . _storiers_, gen. pl. of _storier_, a teller of a story; cf. o.f. _historieur_, an historian (godefroy). thynne prints _starieres_; which gives no sense. . _two the laste_, the last two; chapters and ; but chapter has little to do with the subject. chap. v. . 'or as an ook comth of a litel spyr'; troil. ii. . - . the word _welked_ occurs twice in chaucer, c. t., c , d ; and _wiver_ once, troil. iii. . . _with yvel ... acomered_, desires not to be encumbered with evil. . 'why, as soon as one has sprung up on high, does not the other spring up also?' here 'one' and 'the other' seem to refer to 'will' and 'bliss'; cf. ll. , , , . - . cf. hf. - ; boeth. bk. iii. pr. . - . chap. vi. - . imitated from ch. boeth. bk. i. met. . - . . _seconde boke_; cf. book ii. ch. . - , . . _setling_; misprinted _setteles_; but see _setling_ in ch. . l. . . he here contemplates the possibility of yielding to persecution and threats. - . the _five wits_ are the five senses; p. plowman, c. ii. , and the note. . _aptes_, natural tendencies; used here only; see new e. dict. . _terme of equivocas_, terms of like signification; _terme_ being an error for _termes_. answering to lat. _uerba aequiuoca_, words of like signification; isidore, orig. ii. (lewis and short). _equivocas_ is formed by adding the eng. pl. _-s_ to the lat. neuter plural (new e. dict.). cf. the passage in p. plowman, where _liberum-arbitrium_ recites his names; c. xvii. . the first name, 'instrument of willing,' corresponds to _animus_: '_dum uult, animus est_'; but the rest vary. . _reson_. compare the same passage: '_dum iudicat, racio est_.' . compare the same: '_dum recolit, memoria est_.' . _affeccion_: a disposition to wish for sleep. . _that lambes_, who scorn and despise lambs. . thynne has _vs_, which is a not uncommon spelling of 'use.' i merely print 'us[e]' because _us_ looks so unintelligible. in l. , the word is _usage_; in l. , we have _use_. . _thinges_; viz. riches, honour, and power; discussed in book ii. chapters - . . _onbyde_, misprinted _unbyde_; see note above, to ch. . . chap. vii. . the idea of this tree is copied from p. plowman, c. xix. - . thus in l. , the ground in which the tree grows is said to be 'ful in thyne herte'; and in p. plowman, the tree grows in _cor-hominis_, the heart of man. in p. plowman, the tree is called true-love, the blossoms are benign-speech (cf. l. ), and the fruits are deeds of charity. see note to l. below. . cf. 'as, wry the gleed, and hotter is the fyr'; legend of good women, . . _pype_; see troil. v. ; c. t., a (and note). . _no wode lay use_, sing no mad song. . _aristotel_. the reference appears to be to aristotle, de interpretatione ([greek: peri hermêneias]), ch. . _voice_ seems to mean 'a word unrelated to a sentence,' i.e. not related to something else as forming part of a sentence. . so in p. plowman, c. xix. , the tree is attacked by three wicked winds; especially 'in flouryng-tyme,' l. . . _a marchaunt_; so in chaucer, c. t., g - . . _so ofte_; from ch. troil. ii. - ; note the epithet _happy_, the use of the sb. _sweigh_ or _swaye_, and the phrase _come al at ones_, in both passages. . cf. 'gutta cauat lapidem'; ovid, ex ponto, iv. . . _lethy_, weak; see prompt. parv., and gloss. to p. plowman. - . compare bk. iii. ch. . - . . 'quod debuimus facere, fecimus'; luke, xvii. . . _al is_, it is all to be accounted to her wholly. _to wyte_ usually has a bad sense; as implying blame. . _this lady_; i.e. heavenly love suddenly took up its place in his heart. this is rather inartistic; no wonder that the author was much astonished at such a proceeding (ch. . below). this of course puts an end to the dialogue, but in thynne's misarranged print the lady speaks to him again, as if it were _out of his heart_! chap. viii. . _lynes_, written lines of writing, which he imagines to be imprinted on his understanding; see ll. , , below. . _me might_, one might; _me_ for _men_ = _man_, as often. . _but for_, except because; so in l. . _wol_, desires. . _owe i not alowe_, i ought not to applaud. . _it make_, cause it (to be so); as in troil. ii. . . 'quia christi bonus odor sumus deo, in iis qui salui fiunt; ... aliis quidem odor mortis in mortem'; cor. ii. - . . _ne had_, had; disregarding _ne_, which is inserted after the word _denyed_. . _without ... nede_, without any kind of necessity. . _him nedeth_, something is lacking to him. . _forward_, thenceforward, afterwards. - . _in his owne comodité_, in what is suitable for him; _comodites_, desires that are suitable. the examples of the word in this passage are older than any given, s.v. _commodity_, in the new e. dict. cf. ll. , . chap. ix. . _destenee_, destiny; cf. ch. boeth. bk. iv. pr. . , . . _non inconvenient_, convenient; i.e. befitting. . _chapitre_, chapter; viz. ch. of book iii. . here thynne's text returns to the right order. . the author now concludes his work with a prayer and a short recommendation of his book to the reader. ll. - speak of its imperfections; ll. - tell us that the effort of writing it has done him good. in ll. - he anticipates future freedom from anxiety, and continuance 'in good plight.' he was then evidently unaware that his death was near at hand. . 'my dull wit is hindred by the stepmother named forgetfulness.' a curious expression. . _horisons_, put for _orisons_, prayers. . _sightful_, visible; an obvious allusion to the eucharist (l. ). similarly, a gem denotes a pearl, or 'margaret'; and margaret (a woman's name) denotes grace, learning, or wisdom of god, or else holy church. . from john, vi. . . from cor. iii. . , . printed as prose in thynne; but two riming verses seem to be intended. if so, _al-le_ is dissyllabic. § ii. the plowman's tale. numerous references are given to pierce the ploughman's crede, ed. skeat (e.e.t.s.); a poem by the same author. see the introduction. . _tabard_; a ploughman's loose frock; as in ch. c. t., a . . _saynt thomas_; i.e. his shrine at canterbury. . _therwith to fynd_, to provide for thereby. . _queynt_, quenched; because, in the solemn form of excommunication used in the romish church, a bell was tolled, the book of offices for the purpose was used, and three candles were extinguished. see nares, s.v. _bell, book, and candle_. cf. ll. , . . four lines are here lost, the stanza being incomplete. we might supply them thus:-- they have the loof and we the crust, they eten more than kinde hath craved; they been ungentle and unjust, with sinners shullen such be graved. . _stryf_, strife. the struggle was between the secular and regular clergy on the one hand, and the lollards on the other; see ll. - . each side accused the other of falseness, and the author hopes that the falser of them may suffer shame. he evidently sides with the lollards; but, not caring to decide so weighty a question for himself, he contrives that the dispute shall be carried on by two birds, the griffin and the pelican. . _sedes_, seeds. the lollards were accused of sowing tares (_lolia_). the author hints that seeds were sown by _both_ of the contending parties. . _some_; referring rather to the sowers than to the seeds. in any case, it refers to the two parties. . _souple_; the text has _souble_, which is an obvious error. the o.f. _souple_ means 'humble,' which is the sense here intended. . _a-cale_, chilled, frozen; cf. note to p. plowman, c. xxi. ; and see the new e. dict. . _ever in oon_, always in the same condition, without increasing in wealth. . _i-cleped_, called; the old text has _iclepeth_, but some editions make this obvious correction. _lollers_, idle fellows; see the note to p. plowman, c. x. . . 'whoever looks on them (sees that) they are the reverse of tall.' cf. 'a _tall_ fellow,' and 'a _tall_ man of his hands' in shakespeare. . _wro_, nook; see _wr[=a]_ in stratmann. . _griffon_, griffin; a fabulous monster with the head and wings of an eagle, and the hinder parts of a lion; with probable reference to the vulture. 'in that contre ben many _griffounes_ ... thei han the body upward as an egle, and benethe as a lyoun.... but o griffoun is more strong thanne .viij. lyouns'; mandeville's travels; ch. xxvi. see l. below. . 'a pelican laid his lure to (attracted to him) these lollers.' the pelican was supposed to feed its young with blood which it drew from its own breast by wounding it, and was early considered as the type of christian love or charity, or of christ himself; see l. . see the illustration at p. of legends of the holy rood, ed. morris. hence it is here supposed to plead on behalf of meekness, in the long passages contained in ll. - , - , - , - , - , - . the pelican is responsible for the greater part of the poem, as the author distinctly says in l. . anything that is amiss, we are told, must be put down to the pelican; the author is irresponsible, as it is only a fable. . _pelure_, costly fur; also spelt _pellour_; but _pylloure_ (as in the old text) is a bad spelling. see gloss. to p. plowman. . _batail_, battle. it was notorious that william spenser, bishop of norwich, used to lead military expeditions. thus he led one such expedition into flanders, in . cf. l. . . 'god is not the master of them that consider no man equal to them.' . _peragall_, equal; spelt 'p_er_agal' or 'p_ar_agal' in rich. the redeless, i. . the old text has _permagall_, where the _m_ is clearly for _in_; the spelling _peringall_ being intended. godefroy has o.f. _parivel_, also _parigal_, _paregal_, _perigal_, _paringal_ [with intrusive _n_], 'adj. et s., tout à fait ègal, tout à fait semblable.' from lat. _peraequalis_. . 'painted and adorned with colours.' cf. 'peynt and portred'; p. pl. crede, ; 'portreid and paynt,' . . _boystous_, rough. the o.f. _boistous_ meant 'lame' (f. _boiteux_); but godefroy shews, in his supplement, that it was also applied to a very rough road (as being likely to lame one); hence, generally, rough, and finally, rude, noisy, as in the e. _boisterous_; a word of which the etymology has not yet been fully accounted for, but may be thus explained. . _perrey_, precious stones, jewellery; see _perree_ in the glossary (vol. vi). the old text has _pyrrey_. . _gown_, an obvious correction; old text, _gold_, repeated from l. . for 'grene gownes,' see l. below. . this line seems to be corrupt. . _crallit_, curled, twisted; cf. _crulle_ in chaucer; see new e. dict. . _gold-mastling_ is a compound word, and should have been printed with a hyphen. it means the same as _latoun_, unless _latoun_ was an imitation of an older and richer alloy. thus, in wright's a.s. vocabularies, we find: '_auricalcum_, goldmæslinc,' col. , ; '_auricalcum_, goldmestling,' col. , ; '_auricalcum_, _anglice_ latoun,' col. , . as to _latoun_, see note in vol. v. p. . cf. a.s. _mæstling_, g. _messing_; words of uncertain origin. - . cf. john, iv. . _admirall_, prince, chief. . _demed_; an easy correction; old text, _done_, which will not scan. . _all-holyest_, i.e. _sanctissimus_ (l. ); a title given to the head of a religious order. . 'the very thing which christ forbad to the apostles.' . 'they regard him (the pope) as wholly omnipotent.' - . _he_, the pope. _another_, (apparently) a head of a religious order, an abbot or prior. _mystere_, ministry, office. . 'he reserves nothing at all'; _opin_, open, a thing that is free; _joint_, a thing that is connected. . _an angell_; see rev. xxii. . . read _christ his_; 'christ keep his people from them'; the printer evidently regarded _christ his_ as a form of the genitive case. the proper sense of _wisse_ is guide, or direct. . _which of hem_, which of the two popes. the rival popes were boniface ix, elected nov. , , and benedict xiii, elected sept. , . clement viii, predecessor of the latter, died sept. , . . 'omnes enim, qui acceperint gladium, gladio peribunt'; matt. xxvi. . . swearing was a dismembering of christ; see note to c. t., c (vol. v. p. ). . 'but curse all that oppose them.' . 'but he, who so acquires it, shall part from it.' . _rent_, income, profit; the method of doing this is explained in the freres tale, d - . . 'they anoint the sheep's sore'; as a shepherd does with tar; see _tar-box_ in halliwell; and cf. l. . . _maximien_; galerius valerius maximianus, usually called galerius; emperor of rome, - ; a cruel persecutor of the christians. . 'they follow christ (who went upward) to heaven, just as a bucket (that goes downward) into a well.' said ironically; their ascent towards heaven is in a downward direction; cf. l. . _wall_ for 'well' is rare, but not unexampled; cf. _walle-stream_, well-stream, in layamon, vol. i. p. , and see _walle_ in stratmann. . 'the truth has (often) slain such men.' . 'they comb their "crockets" with a crystal comb.' a _crocket_ was a curl or roll of hair, as formerly worn; see the new e. dict. there is a lost romance entitled 'king adelstane with gilden kroket'; see footnote to havelok, ed. skeat, p. vi. sir f. madden remarks that 'the term _crocket_ points out the period [i.e. the earliest possible date] of the poem's composition, since the fashion of wearing those large rolls of hair so called, only arose at the latter end of the reign of henry iii.' . cf. 'turpis lucri'; tit. i. , ; pet. v. . . _meynall_, perhaps better spelt _meyneall_. it is the adj. formed from m.e. _meynee_, a household, and is the same word as mod. e. _menial_. wyclif uses _meyneal_ to translate lat. _domesticam_ in rom. xvi. . the sense here is--the exaction of tithes is, with these masters, a household business, a part of their usual domestic arrangements. . lit. 'they betake to farm to their sumners,' i.e. they farm out to their sumners the power of harming people as much as they can; they let their sumners make exactions. the method of doing this is fully exposed in chaucer's freres tale. cf. ll. , . . 'such rascals are sure to slander men, in order to induce them to win their favour'; i.e. by compounding. . _call_, caul or head-dress, richly ornamented, and therefore expensive; see note to c. t., d (vol. v. p. ). . 'or, to commit such a tool (instrument) to such cursed men.' . 'as good a bishop as is my horse ball.' said ironically; 'no better a bishop than,' &c. ball was, and still is, a very common name for a horse. . _nothing_, not at all, not a whit. . old text, _one fors_, with _s_ attached to the wrong word. - . _goodes_, property. _somme totall_, sum total of wealth. , . _for christes love_, for love of christ. the words _forsake_ in l. , and _wake_ in l. , are used ironically. . _lamuall_, lemuel; who was a king; prov. xxxi. . . _the stoon_, the rock; matt. xvi. ; cf. cor. x. . . _croysery_, crusade, as in rob. of glouc. . no serious crusade was intended at this time; however, the author affirms that the rival popes discouraged the idea; for each wanted men to fight for him. . _hye seet_, sat aloft; the form _seet_ occurs in ch. c. t., a . . _fettes_, fetch; observe the use of this northern plural. . 'their servants are unfaithful [or unserviceable] to them unless they can double their rental.' . the author can find no more rimes to rime with _fall_, so he proceeds to 'shew' or propose another word, viz. _amend_. . 'they tell men nothing, nor (explain) how; yet, in god's word, they tell of (or count) many a slip, or omission,' i.e. find errors in the scriptures. see _balk_ in the new e. dict. . _offrend_; o.f. _offrende_; cf. '_offrande_, an offering'; cotgrave. . read _punishëments_, as in the old edition; it is a word of four syllables; from o.f. _punissement_ (godefroy), which often appears in verse as a word of four syllables. . 'they hate guests of the poor,' i.e. hate to entertain them; cf. l. . . _careckes_, characters, signs, marks; see the new e. dict. . 'one, to curse to hell; the other, to slay men here (on earth)'; cf. luke, xxii. . . 'a sword is no implement to guard sheep with, except for shepherds that would devour the sheep.' in later english, at any rate, a _sheep-biter_ meant a thief (halliwell). cf. l. . . _untrend_, unrolled; not rolled up, but freshly pulled off. . _sathan_, satan; heb. _s[=a]t[=a]n_, adversary, opponent. . read _reprende_; cf. _comprende_ in chaucer. . _ensyse_, variant of _assyse_, fashion, sort; 'they are, surely, of the same sort.' see _assize_, sect. , in the new e. dict. bailey gives: '_ensise_, quality, stamp; _old word_'; with reference, doubtless, to this very line. cf. _assyse_, fashion, manner, in l. below. . _frend_, evidently put for _fremde_, strange, foreign, averse; which was difficult to pronounce. . read _maundements_, i.e. commandments (trisyllabic). the form _commaundementes_ is too long for the line. see _mandement_ in stratmann and in chaucer. . _to prison_. evidently written before , when lollards were frequently sent to the stake for heresy. cf. l. ; and see note to l. . . 'the king's law will judge no man angrily, without allowing the accused to answer.' . _testament_, a will; the friars had much to do with the making of wills. . 'for they (the people) are faster in their bonds, worse beaten, and more bitterly burnt than is known to the king.' for the word _brent_, see note to l. . . _the emperour_; constantine, according to a legend which the lollards loved to repeat; see the full note to p. plowman, c. xviii. . . _sely kyme_, innocent (or silly) wretch. _kyme_ answers to an a.s. _*c[=y]ma_ = _*k[=u]m-ja_, lit. 'one who laments,' from the verb found in o.h.g. _k[=u]mjan_, to lament, _ch[=u]-mo_, a lament; cf. gk. [greek: goos], wailing; skt. _gu_, to sound. see o.h.g. _c[=u]m_, _c[=u]mjan_ in schade; and the idg. root _gu_, in fick. . 'a title of dignity, to be as a play-mate to them'; a curious expression. godefroy gives o.f. '_personage_, s.m., dignité, bénéfice ecclésiastique; en particulier personnat, dignité ecclésiastique qui donnait quelque prééminence au _chanoine_ qui en était revêtu dans le chapitre auquel il appartenait.' cotgrave has: '_personat_, a place, or title of honour, enjoyed by a beneficed person, without any manner of jurisdiction, in the church.' . possibly copied from p. plowman, b. prol. :--'somme serven the king, and his silver tellen.' these ecclesiastics often busied themselves in the law-courts, to their great profit. cf. l. . . 'and let out to farm all that business.' . _builde_; so in p. pl. crede, : 'for we buldeth a burwgh, a brod and a large.' cf. wyclif's works, ed. arnold, iii. . . 'nor (will they) send anything to him who hath given them everything.' . _gigges_, concubines; see stratmann. roquefort has: '_gigues_, fille gaie, vive.' cf. _giglot_ in shakespeare. (initial _g_ is here sounded as _j_.) . 'and provide them with fine clothes.' . here all the 'seven sins' are mentioned except gluttony. . 'the wisdom of such willers is not worth a needle.' . _jay_; so also in chaucer, c. t., a . . _maynteyners_, abettors of wrongdoers; see note to p. plowman, b. iii. . . _brent_, burnt; still more strongly put in l. . that heretics were sometimes burnt before , is certain from wyclif's sermons, ed. arnold, vol. i. pp. x, , as compared with p. . there is a case given in bracton of a man who was burnt as early as in the reign of henry iii. see the whole subject discussed in my edition of p. plowman (e. e. t. s.), in the pref. to b-text, p. v, pref. to c-text, pp. xi-xiv, and the note to b. xv. , where langland has 'ledeth me to brennynge.' observe that the king is here spoken of as not presuming to burn heretics. . the seven sacraments of the romish church; cf. l. . . compare--'and also y sey coveitise _catel to fongen_'; p. pl. crede, . . 'they want to meddle in everything, and to perform matters amiss is their amusement.' . _sturte_, variant of _sterte_, start up; _stryve_, struggle. . _at the nale_ = _at then ale_, at the ale-house; cf. note to p. plowman, c. i. . . cf. 'at marketts and miracles we medleth us nevere'; p. pl. crede, . . 'they dance and hoot with the cry of "heave and hale."' _heave_ is here to use exertion; cf. troil. ii. ; and _hale_ is to haul or pull. _heave and hale_, or _heave and hoe_, was a cry used for men to pull all together; hence _with heve and hale_ just corresponds to the modern 'with might and main.' cotgrave has (s.v. _cor_) the phrase: '_À cor et à cry_, by proclamation; also, by might and maine, with heave and hoe, eagerly, vehemently, seriously.' . _they_, i.e. the husbands; _sory_, aggrieved. . _for_, for fear of being summoned. . _stocke_, i.e. some image of a saint. an image of a favourite saint was honoured with many candles burning before it; whilst other saints were left in the dark, because they could work no miracles. the most favourite image was that of mary; see l. , and cf. p. pl. crede, . . 'and alle povere in gost god himself blisseth'; p. pl. crede, . . _baudriks_, belts; _baselardes_, short swords, sometimes curved. see note to p. plowman, c. iv. . . _counten ... of gownes_, they think much (_counten_) of scarlet and green gowns, that must be made in the latest fashion, in order to embrace and kiss the damsels. an awkward sentence. . _sewe_, sue, suit, lit. follow; unless it be for _schewe_, i.e. shew. . _pykes_, peaks. long-peaked shoes were much in fashion; cf. note to p. plowman, c. xxiii. . . 'such men will ask them (i.e. those that confess to them) for money for shriving them.' _is_ = _es_, them; a curious form of the plural pronoun of the third person; see _es_ in stratmann. . 'and they desire men to creep to the cross.' 'creeping to the cross' was an old ceremony of penance, most practised on good friday; see note to p. plowman, c. xxi. . . _askes_, ashes; alluding to the sacrament of penance. for all other sacraments (as baptism, confirmation, holy orders, the eucharist, matrimony, and extreme unction) men had to pay. . _sans ... dyre_, without (saying) 'if i may say so.' that is, _ose je dyre_, (dare i say it) is an apologetic phrase for introducing an unpalatable remark. . 'either they give the bishops (some reason) why.' . _agryse_, dread, here used in an imperative sense; 'let such men dread god's anger.' cf. ll. , . . _for he_, because he would fain earn something. . _benet_, benedict; cf. ch. c. t., a , and note. . cf. 'of double worstede y-dight'; p. pl. crede, . . compare--'and his syre a soutere' (cobbler); p. pl. crede, . - . _honged_, hung upon, followed after. cf. 'opon the plow hongen,' p. pl. crede, . and compare also the same, - . . the line is imperfect. i have supplied _but_, but the right word is _not_. for _cherelich_ means 'expensive' or 'prodigal,' from o.f. _cher_, dear. this we know from the occurrence of the same rare form as an adverb in p. pl. crede, ; where the sense is--'but to maintain his chamber as expensively (_chereliche_) as a chieftain.' see _cherely_ in the new e. dict. the parallel phrase _not lordlych_ occurs in l. . . _crede_, i.e. pierce the ploughman's crede, written shortly before by the same author, and describing at length the four orders of friars. . _sad_, sated, tired. the more usual old sense was 'staid.' . 'if they were poor, filthy, and dirty.' . _honest_, honourable, worthy of respect; cf. l. . . _maysters_, masters; matt. xxiii. . cf. p. pl. crede, - , ; and c. t., d , and the note (vol. v. p. ). . read _leve_, not _lyve_; _with hir leve_, with what is permitted to them. for _leve_ (leave), see l. . . _for ye woll_, because you wish to. . _distaunce_, disagreement, strife; see mätzner. . 'why do ye meddle, who have nothing to do with it?' . _lette_, to prevent men from living in that way. . _soule-hele_, salvation for the soul. . pronounce _this is_ as _this_. . _wedding_, matrimony; considered as a sacrament. . 'subject or accident'; cf. note to c. t., c . . the line should end with a semicolon. . 'unless ye will act otherwise.' . _cockes_, euphemistic for _goddes_. . _doule_, small feather, down-feather. i derive it from o.f. _doulle_, variant of _douille_, soft, something soft, from lat. _ductilis_. hence it meant something downy, and, in particular, the 'down-feather' of a bird. this is clearly the sense in shakespeare also, where ariel uses the expression--'one _dowle_ that's in my plume'; temp. iii. . ; i.e. one down-feather (small feather) that is in my plumage. dr. schmidt is in doubt whether _plume_ here means 'plumage,' but the stage-direction expressly says that 'ariel enters like a harpy, and claps his _wings_ upon the table.' it is very interesting to see how well this passage illustrates shakespeare. see mr. wright's note for other passages where _dowl_ means 'soft down.' of course, the words _dowl_ and _down_ are in no way connected. see my note in phil. soc. trans. - , p. . . _god wolde_, i.e. oh! that it might be god's will. cf. _would god_, numb. xi. ; deut. xxviii. ; kings, v. ; rich. ii, iv. . . . christ was likened to the pelican; see note to l. . . _the foul_, the former or _bird_-like part of the griffin; see note to l. , and cf. l. . . 'because bribery may break god's prohibition.' . referring to the form of the griffin; see notes to ll. , . . _y-gurd_, lit. girt; hence, prepared, ready. . _ly_, lie, i.e. deceive; because the lapwing tries to delude those who search for its nest. . _for-gerd_, destroyed, utterly done away with; from m.e. _for-garen_. . _the phenix_. the phoenix is here supposed, as being an unique bird, to be the king or master of all birds, and to execute vengeance on evil-doers. . the sense of _of_ is here uncertain. perhaps _of flight_ means 'as regards my flight,' and so 'to protect my flight.' . this line is somewhat 'set back,' as in the original. but there seems to be no reason for it. . the original has: 'and the lambe that slayn was'; imperfect. . here the author speaks for himself, and excuses the pelican's language. § iii. jack upland. to this piece, which is an attack upon the friars, a reply was made by one of them (probably a dominican, see notes to ll. , ), which is printed at length in wright's political poems and songs (record series), vol. ii. pp. - ; together with a rejoinder by jack upland, printed on the same pages. the friar's reply is often cited in the notes below, where the number refers to the page of the above-named volume. see further in the introduction. . _jack uplande_, jack the countryman, a nickname for one who is supposed to have had but little education; cf. the _plowman's_ tale. . _fellest folk_, the wickedest people; referring to the friars. . the friar's reply copies several of these expressions: thus we find--'_on wounder wise_, seith jak, freres, ye ben growun'; p. . . '_sowen_ in youre sectes of _anticristis_ hondes'; p. . . _not obedient_; 'unboxom _to bishopis_, not _lege men to kynges_'; p. . the friar asserts that they _do_ obey the bishops; but carefully adds--'although not so fer forth as seculer preestes'; p. . . '_wede, corn, ne gras_, wil ye not hewen'; p. ; repeated on p. . the friar retorts that they are not expected to cleanse ditches, like a jack upland; p. . we thus learn that _woode_ in l. is almost certainly an error for _weede_. . _where to been_, where they will (hereafter) go to. . see cor. xiii. - . . _skilfully_, reasonably; _skill_ often has the sense of reason. . the friar evades the question as to the number of orders, and replies that he is of christ's order; pp. - . . reply: st. james makes mention of two kinds of life, the active and the contemplative; we belong to the latter; pp. - . . _apostata_, apostate; a term applied to a friar who left his order (see l. ) _after_ his year of probation had been completed, or else (see l. ) after a probation of three months. see ll. - , and - below; and the note to p. plowman, c. ii. (b. i. ). the question here put was not answered. - . reply: it is shocking to speak of men leaving their wives like this; we are not wedded to our habit any more than a priest is to his tonsure; p. . . reply: no. we are only punished for leaving off our habits because it implies forsaking of our rule. our habits are not sendal, nor satin nor golden; pp. - . . reply: what, jack, does your tippet mean? my wide cope signifies charity. my hood, patience in adversity. the scapulary denotes obedience to our superiors. as for the knotted girdle, ask the franciscans; pp. - . . reply: why do most of the lollards wear gray clothes? p. . . no reply to this question. . reply: see eccles. iii. ; prov. xxv. ; p. . . reply: a question rather for monks than friars. why do you not put your dining-table in your cow-house? p. . . reply: perhaps some of us go to rome for dispensations, but most of us have need to stay at home, to keep watch over lollards; p. . . reply: you have forgotten the text, cor. vi. ; p. . . reply: christ, at his transfiguration, had only three witnesses from among his apostles. and he chose only twelve apostles, out of his many followers; and see prov. xii. ; p. . . reply: a man is better than a beast; yet even for your beasts you make cattle-sheds and stables. our houses are often poor ones. did you ever see any that resembled the tower, or windsor castle, or woodstock? your lies are shameless; pp. - . i note here jack upland's rejoinder; he says that he does not object to the friars having houses, but he objects to the needless grandeur of them; for it does not follow that a man who drinks a quart of wine must therefore proceed to drink a gallon; p. . . reply: you say that we let the whole realm to farm. why, it is not ours at all! it belongs to the king. we have no more estate in the country than you have in heaven; pp. - . the incompleteness of this reply is amazing. . the original reading must have been different here. the friar puts the question thus: why do you pay no tribute to the king, whereas christ paid tribute to the emperor? reply: christ did not pay it as a debt, but only to perform the law in meekness. the jewish priests did not pay taxes like the commons. priests may pay if they are willing, but not friars; pp. , . . reply: we are glad to have the prayers of the poor, if their letters of fraternity are genuine; but we do not desire _your_ paternosters; p. . . reply: we do not make men more perfect than their baptism makes them; p. . . reply: the golden trental, 'that now is purchasid of preestis out of freris hondis,' delivers no soul, except as it is deserved; p. . see note to ch. c. t., d (vol. v. p. ). . reply: you are quite mistaken. perhaps some carmelite told you this, or some franciscan. the austin friars and the dominicans do not say so; p. . . reply: if you accuse us of stealing children, christ practically did the same, by enticing disciples to follow him. see matt. xix. ; luke, xiv. ; john, xv. . to win souls is no robbery; pp. - . . _undernime_, reprove. reply: according to you, not even the king should maintain any discipline. the pope has a prison; and so has the bishop of canterbury, and the bishop of london. but you do not like prisons, for you often experience them; pp. - . . reply: burial is _not_ a sacrament, as you say. you contradict yourself; p. . . reply: if, as you say, we never shrive the poor, why are parish-priests so angry with us for doing so? p. . cf. note to p. plowman, c. xiii. . questions , , and are passed over. . reply: we do right to live of the gospel; see cor. ix. ; luke, x. ; rom. xv. . . reply: god knows how much good the preaching of the friars has wrought; p. . the dominicans especially were proud of their preaching. . the friar here remarks that the wycliffites are heretics, and ought to be burnt; p. . the same remark is all the answer made to question . . reply: the friars do not _sell_ the mass; they only freely give it to those who freely give to them. even if we did sell it, surely the parish-priests receive money for the same; this is not simony; pp. - . see note to ch. c. t., d ; vol. v. p. . . reply: we write down the names only to help our _own_ memories; for special prayers are very profitable for souls; pp. , . see note to ch. c. t., d ; vol. v. p. . . _berest god in honde_, accusest christ. reply: christ was lord of all spiritually; but, as a man, he was needy. david says of him, 'i am poor and needy, yet the lord thinketh upon me'; ps. xl. . i refer you to matt. viii. ; pp. - . . no special answer is given to questions - . . reply: you expect your servant to call you 'master.' it is not the being called 'master,' but ambition, that christ forbids; pp. - . cf. note to ch. c. t., d ; vol. v. p. . . the reply is singular, to the effect that pope john xxiv wrote against this matter, and the friars minors (franciscans) against him. 'examyne her actis, and loke who hath the beter; and knowe noon other ordre this perfitnesse approveth'; p. . . there is no reply to question . . reply; going two and two together is a scriptural custom. barnabas and paul did so. so did paul and timothy. besides, there were _two_ tables in the law, _two_ cherubim in the temple, and _two_ in the tabernacle. it was not good for adam to be _alone_; pp. - . cf. note to p. plowman, c. xi. ; and to chaucer, c. t., c . . there seems to be no reply to questions - . . as regards question , the friar replies to ll. - , saying that, according to this, no one could pray for any one; for we cannot tell his future destiny; p. . cf. note to ch. c. t., d ; vol. v. p. . . questions and do not seem to be noticed. question is partly answered in the reply to question . see l. . . reply: you admit (l. ) that god made _all things_ according to weight, number, and measure. but a friar is _something_; ergo, god made friars according to weight, &c. why are priests so numerous? as to a man's hand (l. ), the number of fingers is fixed, and an extra finger is monstrous. but neither god nor holy church have fixed the number of priests or friars. 'many hondis togider maken light werk'; pp. - . cf. note to p. plowman, c. xxiii. . at this point the friar introduces a subject not discussed in the copy of jack upland here printed, viz. the subject of transubstantiation. he says that jack accuses the friars of saying that the bread is not christ's body, but mere roundness and whiteness, and accident without subject; and wyclif is adduced as saying that it remains material bread, and only christ's body in a figurative sense; pp. - . the rest of the friar's reply (which goes but little further) is inapplicable to our text, so that the latter part of the treatise, ll. -end, is left unanswered. perhaps sections - were, at first, a somewhat later addition. . this has been partly said before; see l. above. . it was thought that to die in a friar's habit increased a man's chance of salvation; see l. above. . cf. note to p. plowman, c. xiii. . see l. above. . cf. p. plowman, c. xxiii. - . . this enquiry takes up a large portion of the ploughman's crede. the jealousy of one order against the other was very remarkable. see note to l. above. . see james, i. ; cf. l. above. . see matt. xi. . wyclif has--'for my yok is _softe_, and my charge light.' . the franciscans claimed that st. francis sat in heaven above the seraphim, upon the throne from which lucifer fell; see note to p. plowman, c. ii. (b. i. ). - . evidently intended for four alliterative lines, but the third is too long; read--'and whan ye han soiled that i saide,' &c. again, the first is too short; read--'go, _frere_, now forth,' &c. . _even-christen_, fellow-christian; see gloss. to p. plowman. . 'benefac humili, et non dederis impio: prohibe panes illi dari, ne in ipsis potentior te sit'; ecclus. xii. . § iv. gower: the praise of peace. this piece has no english title except that printed at p. ; for the latin title, see p. . see the introduction. , . henry founded his title on conquest, hereditary right, and election. the first of these is referred to in ll. , ; the second, in l. ; and the third, in l. . see note in vol. i. p. , to xix. . . _boun_, ready; better than the reading _bounde_. . i note here an unimportant variation. for _this is_, the ms. has _is this_. . i find that there is no need to insert _the_. read _requeste_, in three syllables, as it really had a final _e_, being a feminine substantive. cf. 'et lor _requestë_ refaison'; rom. rose, . _requeste_ is trisyllabic in troil. iv. ; l. good wom. . . according to the romance of alexander, the god serapis, appearing in a dream, told him that his great deeds would be remembered for ever. before this, alexander had told his men that he hoped to conquer all the earth--'with the graunt of my god.' see wars of alexander, ed. skeat, ll. , . . this obviously refers to bolingbroke's invasion, when he came, as he said, to claim his inheritance; cf. l. . . _of pestilence_, out of pestilence, to free him from pestilence. . _lyf_, person, man; lit. 'living soul.' common in p. plowman. , . matt. v. ; john, xiv. . . _out of herre_, out of (off) the hinge; like mod. e. 'out of joint.' a favourite phrase of gower's; see his conf. amant. ii. ; iii. , , , . . knights were expected to defend the faith; see note to p. plowman, c. ix. . cf. ll. - . . i supply _alday_ (i.e. continually) to complete the line. . _wayted_, watched, carefully guarded; in contrast to l. . . for _any_ perhaps read _a_; the line runs badly. . 'it is easier to keep a thing than acquire it.' . _assysed_, appointed; as in conf. amant. i. ; iii. . . 'let men be armed to fight against the saracens.' . three points; stated in ll. , - , and ; i.e. the church is divided; christian nations are at variance; and the heathen threaten us. - . these are the nine worthies; of whom three were heathen ( ), three jewish ( ), and three christian ( ); as noted in reliquiæ antiquæ, i. . sometimes they varied; thus shakespeare introduces hercules and pompey among the number; l. l. l. v. . . _machabeus_, judas maccabeus. _godfray_, godfrey of bouillon. _arthus_, king arthur. . for _men_, ms. t. has _pes_ = _pees_; which perhaps is better. . for _tennes_, as in thynne, the trentham ms. has the older spelling _tenetz_, which gives the etymology of 'tennis.' _tenetz_ is the imperative plural of the verb _tenir_, and must have been a cry frequently used in the _jeu de paume_; probably it was used to call attention, like the modern 'play!' this is the earliest passage in which the word occurs. 'no one can tell whether he will win or lose a "chace" at tennis, till the ball has run its course.' _chace_ is a term 'applied to the second impact on the floor (or in a gallery) of a ball which the opponent has failed or declined to return; the value of which is determined by the nearness of the spot of impact to the end wall. if the opponent, on both sides being changed, can "better" this stroke (i.e. cause his ball to rebound nearer the wall) he wins and scores it; if not, it is scored by the first player; until it is so decided, the "chace" is a stroke in abeyance'; new e. dict. . _be gete_, begotten, be obtained; _begete_ gives no sense. . _lyf_, life; not as in l. . see cor. xiii. . . _cassodore_, cassiodorus. magnus aurelius cassiodorus, born about a.d. , was a statesman and author; his chief work being his _variarum epistolarum libri xii_, which is six times quoted in chaucer's tale of melibeus. gower, in his conf. amantis, iii. , quotes this very passage again; thus-- 'cassiodore in his aprise telleth, the regne is sauf, where pitè dwelleth.' i find: 'pietas est quae regit et celos'; cass. _var._ xi. . . _assysed_, fixed, set; cf. l. . unless it means assessed, rated; a sense which is also found in gower, viz. in his conf. amant. i. ; see the new e. dict. the passage is a little obscure. . 'on account of which mercy should turn aside.' . _constantyn_, constantine the great, roman emperor from a.d. to . eusebius wrote a life of him in four books, which is rather a panegyric than a biography. the story here told is hardly consistent with the facts, as constantine caused the death of his own son crispus and of young licinius; as to which gibbon (c. xviii) remarks that 'the courtly bishop, who has celebrated in an elaborate work the virtues and pieties of his hero, observes a prudent silence on the subject of these tragic events.' in his conf. amantis, iii. , gower again says:-- 'thus saide whylom constantyn:-- what emperour that is enclyn to pitè for to be servaunt, of al the worldes remenaunt he is worthy to ben a lord.' but the particular story about the 'yonge children' to which gower here alludes is given at length in the conf. amantis, bk. ii. vol. i. pp. - . very briefly, it comes to this. constantine, while still a heathen, was afflicted with leprosy. the physicians said he could only be healed by bathing in the blood of young children. on due reflection, he preferred to retain his leprosy; whereupon, he was directed in a vision to apply to pope silvester, who converted him and baptised him; and he was cured of his leprosy when immersed in the baptismal font. the whole city followed the emperor's example, and was converted to christianity. this explains ll. - :--'so that the dear ones, (converted) from being the hateful ones who had formerly been at enmity with christ,' &c. . for _debated_, ms. t. has _deleated_, for _delated_, i.e. deferred; see _dilate_ in the new e. dict. . 'these other christian princes'; viz. in particular, charles vi, king of france, and robert iii, king of scotland. . these interesting lines tell us that blindness befell the poet in the first year of henry iv (sept. , --sept. , ); and we gather that the present poem was meant to be his last. as a matter of fact, he wrote a still later couplet in the following words:-- 'henrici regis annus fuit ille secundus scribere dum cesso, sum quia cecus ego.' these lines occur in mss. of his vox clamantis; see morley, eng. writers, iv. . notwithstanding his infirmity, gower survived till the autumn of ; and was interred, as is well known, in the church of st. mary overies--now st. saviour's--in southwark, towards the rebuilding of which he had liberally contributed. it appears that negotiations for peace, both with scotland and france, were being prosecuted in the latter part of ; see wylie, history of henry iv, i. , . it is also probable that gower must have written the 'praise of peace' before the death of richard ii in feb. , as he makes no allusion to that event, nor to the dangerous conspiracy against henry's life in the early part of january. for these reasons, we may safely date the poem in the end of the year . § v. thomas hoccleve: the letter of cupid. this poem is imitated, rather than translated, from the french poem entitled l'epistre au dieu d'amours, written by christine de pisan in may, ; printed in oeuvres poétiques de christine de pisan, publiées par maurice roy, ii. - ; société des anciens textes français, . hoccleve even rearranges some of the material; and dr. furnivall has printed all the lines of the original of which the english poet has made use, in the notes to his edition of hoccleve's works, published for the early english text society, in . it thus appears that the lines of christine's poem are to be taken in the following order: - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - . the following stanzas, on the other hand, are wholly hoccleve's own: - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - . the last set extends to lines. cupid, god of love, is supposed to write a letter to all lovers, who are his subjects, reproving men for their slander and ill-treatment of women, and defending women against all that is alleged against them. in fact, it is a reply, by christine de pisan, to the numerous severe things that jean de meun had said about women in the famous roman de la rose. he is expressly mentioned by name in l. . i here quote, as a specimen, the first lines of the original, answering to hoccleve's first stanza-- 'cupido, roy par la grace de lui, dieu des amans, sans aide de nullui, regnant en l'air du ciel tres reluisant, filz de venus la deesse poissant, sire d'amours et de tous ses obgiez, a tous vos vrais loiaulx servans subgiez, salut, amour, familiarite!' . 'son of the goddess cithera,' i.e. venus. cithera is an alternative spelling of citherea, occurring in the cambridge and petworth mss. of the cant. tales, a . for the construction, see note to ch. c. t., f . . _albion_. of course hoccleve has adapted the poem for english readers. the original has:--'sur tous païs se complaignent de _france_.' . i read _mot_ for the sake of the grammar and scansion; the mss. have _most_, bad spelling for _most-e_, the past tense. but _moot_ occurs, correctly, as the emphatic form of _mot_, in l. . cf. l. . . _as doth_, pray, do; a common idiom; see note to c. t., e . . _man_, i.e. 'human being'; used generally, and including women. . 'when no word can proceed out of his mouth but such as may reasonably please any one, it apparently comes from the heart.' . 'has the pot by the handle'; i.e. holds it securely. . note the accentuation: 'aný womán.' this accentuation of words on the latter syllable in rather unlikely cases, is a marked peculiarity of hoccleve's verse. cf. _womán_ in l. , _journéy_ in l. ; _axíng_ in l. , _purpós_ in l. . cf. _wommán_ in l. with _wómman_ in l. . . _to here?_ to her? dr. furnivall notes that hoccleve frequently makes _here_ dissyllabic, when it represents the personal pronoun. cf. l. ; and see his preface, p. xli. the reading 'to hir name yet was yt no reprefe,' given in dr. furnivall's edition from one ms. only, affords no sense, and will not scan, as _name_ is properly dissyllabic. . _souneth in-to_, tends to; cf. note to c. t., b . . 'they procure such assistants as have a double face.' the accentuation of _prócuren_ on the _o_ was at this time common; we even find the form _proker_ (see stratmann). - . _wolde ... men wiste_, would like men to know. . 'unless he be so far advanced in madness as to spoil all with open coarseness; for _that_, as i suppose, women do not like.' . 'reason follows it so slowly and leisurely.' . _dishonest_, unworthy of honour, blameworthy. ray gives the proverb--'it's an ill bird that bewrays its own nest'; and compares the greek--[greek: ton oikoi thêsauron diaballein]. . _lakken_, blame, find fault with; as in chaucer. . _bilowen_, lied against; pp. of _bil[=e]o[gh]en_, a.s. _bil[=e]ogan_. . alluding to ovid's _remedium amoris_. cf. ch. c. t., d - . . 'they say, it is profitable to consider peril.' . rather close to the original french:-- 'et aucuns sont qui iadis en mes las furent tenus, mais il sont d'amer las, ou par vieillece ou deffaulte de cuer, si ne veulent plus amer a nul fuer, et convenant m'ont de tous poins nyé, moy et mon fait guerpy et renié, comme mauvais serviteurs et rebelles.' . _hente_, caught; _in hir daunger_, under their control, within their power. . it was thought that one poison would expel another; see p. plowman, c. xxi. - , and the notes. . 'it cannot long abide upon one object.' . jean de meun, author of the latter and more satirical part of the famous roman de la rose; see vol. i. . 'they are not so void of constancy.' read _cónstauncè_. . see ch. legend of good women, . . _wold_, desired; pp. of _willen_; see note to c. t., b . . see ch. legend of good women, . - . these two stanzas are wholly original. hoccleve, remembering that the examples of medea and dido both occur in chaucer's legend of good women, here takes occasion to make an express reference to that work, which he here calls 'my legende of martres.' _my_ refers to cupid; _legend_, to chaucer's title; and _martres_, to the latin titles to some of the legends. thus the legend of hypsipyle and medea is entitled--'incipit legenda ysiphile et medee, _martirum_.' instead of _martres_, thynne has the ridiculous reading _natures_, which the editions carefully retain. . 'and, had it not been for the devil,' &c. . _her_, the serpent. there was a legend that the serpent had the face of a beautiful virgin. see ch. c. t., b , and note; p. plowman, b. xviii. , and note. - . these eight stanzas are all hoccleve's own. . _happy to_, fortunate for; because it brought about christ's incarnation. the allusion is to the oft-quoted sentence--'o _felix culpa_, o necessarium peccatum ade,' from the sarum missal. see note to p. plowman, c. viii. . cf. l. . . the day of st. margaret, virgin and martyr, was july , in the latin church. see the edition of seinte marherete, by o. cockayne, e. e. t. s., . . _i_, i.e. cupid. this stanza is spoken by cupid, in his own character; cf. l. . in l. , he assumes the royal style of _we_. it is, moreover, obvious that this stanza would hardly have been approved of by christine. - . imitated from the closing lines of christine's poem:-- 'donné en l'air, en nostre grant palais, le jour de may la solempnée feste ou les amans nous font mainte requeste, l'an de grace mil trois cens quate vins et dix et neuf, present dieux et divins,' &c. it thus appears that 'the lusty month of may,' in l. , is merely copied from the french; but, to the fortunate circumstance that christine gives the exact date of her poem as , we owe the fact that hoccleve likewise gives the exact date of his poem as being . § vi. thomas hoccleve: to the king; and to the knights of the garter. these two balades, each of lines, are written in a highly artificial metre; for, in each case, the four stanzas of which each consists shew the same rimes throughout. the riming syllables in balade are _-esse_, _-our_, and _-alle_; and in balade , are _-ame_, _-aunce_, and _-ee_. a similar example of metrical arrangement occurs in chaucer's balade to rosemounde. . _king_, henry v, as we see from the french title. . _justinian_; emperor of constantinople, a.d. - , whose fame rests upon the justly celebrated justinian code of laws. the reference, fortunately, is explained by hoccleve himself, in a longer balade concerning sir john oldcastel, printed in _anglia_, v. ; and again in hoccleve's poems, ed. furnivall, p. . hoccleve is praising justinian's orthodoxy, to which (as he tells us) henry v was heir; and the exact reference is to the following clause in one of justinian's laws, which is quoted in full in the margin of the balade above mentioned; see _anglia_, v. ; or poems, ed. furnivall, p. . 'nemo clericus vel militaris, vel cuiuslibet alterius conditionis _de fide christiana_ publice turbis coadunatis et audientibus tractare conetur,' &c. so that justinian's 'devout tenderness in the faith' was exhibited by repressing religious discussion; cf. l. . see gibbon's roman empire, ch. . . _the garter_. the noble order of the garter was founded by edward iii on st. george's day, apr. , ; cf. l. . . _constantyn_. he now proceeds to liken henry v to constantine the great, who was a great supporter of the church; see note above, to poem no. iv, l. . cf. _anglia_, v. ; or poems, ed. furnivall, p. ; st. . . _do forth_, proceed, continue to do as you have done in the past. not a common expression; see _forth_ in mätzner. . very characteristic of hoccleve; the accents required by the verse are thrown upon the weak words _your_ and _the_. but perhaps _your_ is emphatic. cf. _fullý_ in l. , _á sharp_, . . hoccleve is clearly urging the king to repress lollardry. . 'god would have it so; and your allegiance would also have it so.' this is explained in a sidenote in the margin: 'quia rex illam iustissimam partem tenet.' that is, the lords ought to put down heresy, because their master the king was against it. . _your style_, your motto; the famous 'honi soit qui mal y pense.' hence _shame_ here means scandal; but _foos to shame_ is an awkward expression in this connexion. . _nuisaunce_, annoyance; referring to heresy; cf. l. . . _slepë nat this_, be not sleepy about this; a rare construction. . _norice of distaunce_, nurse of debate or strife. . 'variation from the faith would be a damnable thing.' . the remark--_cest tout_--instead of the usual word _explicit_, occurs at the end of several poems by hoccleve; see his poems, ed. furnivall, pp. , , , , , , , , , &c. § vii. henry scogan: a moral balade. for remarks upon the heading of this poem, see the introduction. . _sende_; that is, he did not come and recite the poem himself. . this reminds us of the knight's appeal: 'now late us ryde, _and herkneth what i seye_'; c. t., a . . _to queme_, according to your pleasure. _queme_ is here a substantive; see stratmann. cf. _to pay_ in chaucer. . _tak'th_ is monosyllabic, as in l. . so also _think'th_, in l. . . from james, ii. . . 'to the honour of your life and the benefit of your soul.' . the exclamation shews that chaucer was then dead. . the quotation is inexact; cf. ll. , below. the reference is to the wyf of bathes tale, d :-- 'yet may they [our eldres] nat biquethe us, for no-thing, to noon of us hir virtuous living.' . read _think'th_; so also _dryv'th_ in l. ; _tak'th_ in l. . . here the quotation, again from the wyf of bathes tale (d ), is very close:-- 'for of our eldres may we no-thing clayme but temporel thing, that man may hurte and mayme.' . 'therefore god is the source of virtuous nobleness.' this depends on a passage in boethius, bk. iii. met. . l. ; see notes to poem xiv, in vol. i. pp. - . . see this poem of chaucer's in vol. i. p. . . _ful rage_, very fierce. but i know of no other example of _rage_ as an adjective. . _kalends_, the beginning; as in troil. v. . . the passage in boethius is in book i. met. . - . cf. ch. vol. ii. p. . 'nec quaeras auida manu vernos stringere palmites, vuis si libeat frui: autumno potius sua bacchus munera contulit.' . from chaucer, wyf of bathes tale, d :-- 'thenketh how noble, as seith valerius, was thilke tullius hostilius, that out of povert roos to heigh noblesse.' and chaucer found it in valerius maximus, iii. ; see vol. v. p. . . from chaucer, monkes tale, b . but it may be doubted if caesar's alleged poverty is an historical fact. cf. p. , l. (above). . read the story of nero in the monkes tale, b ; that of balthasar (belshazzar) in the same, b ; and that of antiochus in the same, b . compare the lines in b - :-- 'for he so sore fil out of his char that it his limes and his skin to-tar.' . 'i should be sorry, if ye choose amiss.' § viii. john lydgate; complaint of the black knight. there are some excellent notes relative to this poem in schick's edition of lydgate's _temple of glas_ (e. e. t. s.); i refer to them below as 'schick, t. g.' . _bole_, bull. the sun entered taurus, in the fifteenth century, just before the middle of april. hence the phrase _amid the bole_ refers, not to the first degree of the sign, but (literally) to the _middle_ of it. the reference must be to may , when the sun had just passed a little beyond the middle (or th degree) of taurus. even here we trace the influence of chaucer's translation of the romaunt of the rose; for which see notes to ll. , below. chaucer reiterates the mention of _may_, r. r. , , , , ; and ll. and of the present poem answer to r. r. - :-- 'for ther is neither busk ne hay _in may_, that it nil shrouded been, and it with newe leves wreen.' . _with seint johan_, with st. john for their security or protection; probably suggested by the compleynt of mars, l. , which opens in a similar strain; cf. note to c. t., f ; vol. v. p. . , . compare rom. rose (chaucer's version), ll. - . . _halt_, holds, constrains; the present tense. , . compare rom. rose (chaucer's version), ll. - . . lydgate is fond of calling the sun _tytan_; chaucer has the name only once; in troil. iii. . lydgate is here thinking of the passage in the knightes tale, a - , about _fyry phebus_. note that he is fond of the word _persaunt_; see ll. , , ; cf. schick, note to t. g. . . it is odd that no ms. has the form _splayen_; yet the final _n_ is required for the metre, or, at any rate, to save an hiatus. . lydgate here copies l. of the english romaunt of the rose--'the river-syde costeying'--and is a witness to the genuineness of fragment a of that poem; as appears more clearly below; see note to l. . the whole passage seems founded upon the romaunt; for this walk by the river brings him to a _park_ (a _garden_ in the romaunt) enclosed by a wall that had a small gate in it. it is further obvious that l. is borrowed from l. of the parliament of foules--'right of a park walled with grene stoon.' i may remark here that i have seen a wall constructed of red sandstone so entirely covered with a very minute kind of vegetable growth as to present to the eye a bright green surface. . _gate smal_; usually called a _wiket_ in similar poems; see rom. rose, , and schick, note to t. g. . - . this stanza answers to rom. rose, ll. - , - . . _celúred_, canopied, over-arched (new e. dict.). - . cf. rom. rose, - . . _attempre_, temperate; observe that this word occurs in the rom. rose, l. (only three lines above the line quoted in the note to l. ), where the f. text has _atrempee_. . _take_, take effect, take hold, become set; an early example of this curious intransitive use of the verb. . 'ready for (men) to shake off the fruit.' . _daphne_. cf. troil. iii. :--'o phebus, thenk whan dane hirselven shette _under the bark, and laurer wex_ for drede.' and cf. c. t., a ; and schick, note to t. g. . . _myrre_; see troil. iv. - . . cf. the mention of laurel, pine, and cedar in rom. rose, - . . the resemblance of _philbert_ (philibert's nut) to phyllis is accidental, but it was then believed that the connexion was real; merely because vergil has 'phyllis amat corylos'; ecl. vii. . thus gower has (conf. amant. ii. ):-- 'and, after phillis, _philiberd_ this tree was called in the yerd'-- and he gives the story of phyllis and demophon, saying that phyllis hanged herself on a nut-tree. see the legend of good women, . pliny alludes to 'the almond-tree whereon ladie phyllis hanged herselfe'; nat. hist. xvi. (in holland's translation). see further in schick, note to t. g. . . _hawethorn_; often mentioned in poems of this period; see schick, note to t. g. . cf. xx. , p. ; xxiv. , p. . , . the list of trees was evidently suggested by the rom. rose; see chaucer's translation, - . hence the next thing mentioned is a _well_; see the same, ll. - , - . note that the water was _cold_, as in r. r. ; _under a hill_, as in r. r. ; and ran over _gravel_, as in r. r. , . and then note the same, - :-- 'about the _brinkes_ of thise welles, and by the stremes over-al elles _sprang up the gras_, as thikke y-set _and softe as any veluët_.' it is remarkable that the french original merely has 'poignoit l'erbe freschete et drue,' without any mention of _softe_ or of _veluët_. it thus becomes clear that lydgate is actually quoting _chaucer's version_. . the reading seems to be _lustily cam springing_; it would be a great improvement to transpose the words, and read _cam lustily springing_. cf. 'abouten it is gras springing'; r. r. . . cf. 'that shadwed was with braunches grene'; r. r. . . _narcisus_, narcissus; introduced as a matter of course, because he is here mentioned in the romaunt; see r. r. --'here starf the faire narcisus.' . _cupyde_; cf. r. r. --'wel couthe love him wreke tho.' and see the same, - . . cf. r. r. --'hath sowen there of love the seed.' . _pitte_, i.e. well of helicon, most likely; which chaucer mixed up with the castalian spring on parnassus; see note to anelida, . and cf. _the pegasee_ in c. t., f ; and 'i sleep never on the mount of pernaso,' f . . _dyane_, diana; see c. t., a - . . _his houndes_, his _own_ dogs; not _her_, as in several mss. for see c. t., a --'his houndes have him caught.' . _pensifheed_, pensiveness; common in lydgate; see schick, note to t. g. . . cf. 'to drinke and fresshe him wel withalle'; r. r. . - . suggested by r. r. - ; especially - . . 'of gras and _floures, inde_ and pers'; r. r. . and compare l. with r. r. . . _hulfere_, holly; icel. _hulfr_, dogwood. spelt _hulwur_, _huluyr_ in the prompt. parv. 'the holly is still called in norfolk _hulver_, and in suffolk _hulva_'; way. cotgrave has:--'_houx_, the holly, holme, or hulver-tree.' also '_petit houx_, kneehulver, butchers broom.' . ms. p. has _of colour_; which suggests the reading--'in blakke and whyte, of colour pale and wan'; but this, though a better line, cannot stand, as it makes the words _also of his hewe_ in l. superfluous; indeed l. then becomes unmeaning. . _accesse_, feverish attack; see schick, note to t. g. . . _ure_, destiny; o.f. _eur_, lat. _augurium_; cf. f. _mal-heur._ see l. below, and barbour's bruce, i. . . _among_; so in all the copies; _among as_, whilst. . _ado_, to do; put for _at do_; a northern idiom. . _awhaped_, stupefied: see gloss. in vol. vi. _amat_, dismayed. cf. schick, note to t. g. . . _sitting_, suitable; cf. r. r. . . _grounde_ (dissyllabic) improves the line; but _ground_ is the correct form. . here the ashmole ms. inserts 'la compleynt du chiualier'; but wrongly. for see l. . . _niobe_; mentioned in troil. i. . so _woful myrre_, troil. iv. . . _cheste_, receptacle; '_cheste_ of every care'; troil. v. . . cf. troil. i. ; also rom. rose, - . . _fro_, from being, after being. . _daunger_; see schick, note to t. g. . . cf. 'his arwes ... fyle'; parl. foules, . . _male-bouche_, evil tongue; cf. r. r. , &c.; where fragment c has 'wikkid-tonge,' the f. original has _male bouche_. cf. ix. (p. ). see schick, note to t. g. . - . _forjuged_ and _excused_ only give an assonance, not a rime. . _through-girt ... wounde_; from c. t., a . . _purveyaunce_, providence; a reminiscence of the argument in troil. iv. , &c. . _god_; for _the god_; but the article is unnecessary; see schick, note to t. g. . . 'and true men have fallen off the wheel'; i.e. the wheel of fortune; cf. troil. iv. . . _palamides_, palamedes. there were two different heroes of this name. one was the son of nauplius, king of euboea, who lost his life before troy, by the artifices of ulysses. it is said that ulysses, envious of his fame, forged a letter to him purporting to come from priam, and then accused him of treachery; whereupon he was condemned to be stoned to death. but the reference is rather to a much later hero, the unsuccessful lover of la bele isoude. he was defeated by the celebrated knight sir tristram, who made him promise to resign his pretensions to the lady; a promise which he did not keep. see sir t. malory, morte arthure, bk. viii. c. , &c. . _hercules_. see the monkes tale, b . . _gades_, cadiz; where, according to guido, hercules set up some columns or pillars, to shew that he had come to the end of the world. there is an extraordinary confusion as to the locality and maker of these pillars. lydgate here follows the account in the alexander romances, viz. that alexander set up a pillar of marble in the furthest end of india (l. ); on which was inscribed--'ego alexander philippi macedonis post obitum darii usque ad hunc locum expugnando viriliter militaui'; see alexander and dindimus, ed. skeat, p. . lydgate has confused the two accounts. . copied from troil. i. :--'of hem that love list febly for to avaunce'; which is preceded by 'he may goon in the daunce'; see the next line. . _phebus_. cf. 'whan phebus dwelled here in this erthe adoun'; c. t., h . lydgate is not, however, referring to the story in the manciples tale, but rather to the hopeless love of phoebus for the daughter of admetus; for which see troil. i. - . cf. schick, note to t. g. . . _piramus_. see legend of good women, ; and schick, note to t. g. . . _tristram_. see notes to parl. foules, , and to rosamounde, ; and to temple of glas, ed. schick, l. . . achilles fell in love with polyxena, a daughter of priam, according to guido; see note to book of the duch. ; and schick, note to t. g. . _antonius_, antony; see legend of good women, . . see the knightes tale; but it is a little extraordinary that lydgate should instance palamon here. . _jason_; see legend of good women, . for _theseus_, see the same, ; and for _enee_ (aeneas), the same, . . an interesting allusion, as the story of the false arcite was of chaucer's invention; see his anelida. . _demophon_; already mentioned above, l. . . _adon_, adonis; see troil. iii. ; c. t., a . . _chorl_, churl; vulcan; cf. c. t., a , and compl. of mars. . _ipomenes_, hippomenes, the conqueror of atalanta in the foot-race; and therefore _not_ 'guerdonles.' he is thinking of meleager, the unsuccessful lover of the _other_ atalanta, her of calydon. chaucer seems likewise to have confused these stories; see note to parl. foules, ; and cf. c. t., a - . . cf. book duch. , and my note; and schick, note to t. g. . . the correction is obvious. the scribes read _iupartyng_ as _inpartyng_ and then made it into two words. cf. l. . chaucer has _juparten_, troil. iv. . . 'so variable is thy chance'; cf. c. t., b , and the note. . _blent_, blinded. evidently the right reading, for which ms. s. has _blend_. this was turned into _blynde_, destroying the rime. . _went_, weeneth, weens, supposes, guesses; he shoots by guess. evidently the right word, for which ms. s. has _wend_. but it was easily misunderstood, and most mss. have _by wenynge_, which preserves the sense, but destroys the rime. cf. _let_ = lets, in l. . . this line resembles l. of the temple of glas. . for references to similar lines, see schick, note to t. g. . . _parcas_, parcae, the fates; the form is copied from troil. v. . lines - are reminiscences of troil. iii. and c. t., a . . nature is the deputy of god; see p. f. , and note; c. t., c . . with the following stanzas compare chaucer's complaint to his lady, and an amorous complaint. . 'out of your mercy and womanliness, charm my sharp wounds.' . a stock line of lydgate's; it occurs twice in the temple of glas, ll. , . . here the knight's complaint ends. . 'parfourned hath the sonne his ark diurne'; c. t., e . . cf. 'among yon rowes rede'; compl. mars, . . _deaurat_, gilded, of a golden colour; see _deaurate_ in the new e. dict. . _esperus_, hesperus, the evening-star, the planet venus. see note to boeth. bk. i. m. . . . cf. c. t., a , ; and temple of glas, - . . 'venus i mene, the _wel-willy_ planete'; troil. iii. . cf. _gude-willy_ in burns. . 'for thilke love thou haddest to adoun'; c. t., a . . ms. b. has _for very wery_, meaning 'because i was very weary,' which is a possible expression; see schick, note to t. g. ; but _verily_ seems better, as otherwise the line is cumbersome. . _jelousye_; cf. parl. foules, . § ix. john lydgate: the flour of curtesye. i know of no ms. copy of this piece. . valentine's day is feb. ; cf. parl. foules, - . . _larke_; cf. the song of the bird in compl. mars, - . . _cipryde_, really the same as venus, but here distinguished; see parl. foules, . . apparently accented as 'aúrorà'; ch. has auróra, l. g. w. . . _crampessh at_ must be _crampisshed_, i.e. constrained painfully, tortured; see note to anelida, (vol. i. p. ). . imitated from parl. foules, - . . _sursanure_; a wound healed outwardly only; cf. note to c. t., f . . _male-bouche_, evil tongue, slander; from the roman de la rose. see viii. above. . _boreas_, only mentioned by ch. in his boethius, bk. i. m. . , m. . . . _somer-sonne_; imitated from the book of the duch. - . . 'to speke of bountè or of gentilles,' &c.; t. g. . . 'to alle hir werkes virtu is hir gyde'; c. t., b . . alluding to the proverb--'he that hews above his head, the chips fall in his eye'; which is a warning to men who attack their betters. see i. i. . , and the note (p. ). - . _policene_, polyxena; cf. note to viii. . _helayne_, helen. _dorigene_; see frankleyns tale, f . . _cleopatre_; see the first legend in the legend of good women. _secree_, secret, able to keep secrets; a praiseworthy attribute; cf. parl. of foules, ; and lydgate's temple of glas, - :-- 'and mirrour eke was she of _secrenes_, of trouth, of faythfulnes.' it is obvious that the extraordinary word _setrone_ (see the footnote) arose from a desire on the part of the scribe to secure a rime for the name in the next line, which he must have imagined to be _an-ti-góne_, in _three_ syllables, with a mute final _e_! this turned _secree_ into _secrone_, which thynne probably misread as _setrone_, since _c_ and _t_ are alike in many mss. but there are no such words as _secrone_ or _setrone_; and _secree_ must be restored, because _an-ti-go-ne_ is a word of four syllables. we know whence lydgate obtained his 'white antigone'; it was from troilus, ii. , where we find 'fresshe antigone the whyte.' antigone was criseyde's niece, and was so 'secree' that pandarus considered her to be the most fitting person to accompany criseyde when she visited troilus (troil. ii. ), and again when she came to visit pandarus himself (iii. ). . _hester_, esther; see book duch. ; but especially legend of good women, : 'ester, lay thou thy _mekenesse_ al adoun.' _judith_; cf. cant. tales, b , , , e . . _alceste_, alcestis; see l. g. w. , , . _marcia catoun_, martia, daughter of cato of utica; see note to l. g. w. (vol. iii. p. ). . _grisilde_; the griselda of the clerkes tale. again mentioned by lydgate in the temple of glas, , , and elsewhere; see schick's note to t.g. l. . , . _ariadne_; see l. g. w. , , &c. _lucrece_, lucretia; see the same, ; especially l. :--'this lucresse, that starf _at rome toun_.' . _penelope_; see note to l. g. w. . . _phyllis_, _hipsiphilee_; both in l. g. w.; , . . _canacee_; may be either the canace mentioned in l. g. w. , or the heroine of the squieres tale; probably the latter. see schick, note to l. of the temple of glas. . _naught_, not. _falle_, stoop, droop; hence, fail. - . dido slew herself; see l. g. w. . . _medee_, medea; see l. g. w. . but chaucer does not there relate how medea committed any 'outrage.' however, he refers to her murder of her children in the cant. tales, b . . 'that, while goodness and beauty are both under her dominion, she makes goodness have always the upper hand.' see l. . . read _n'offende_, offend not. probably the ms. had _nofende_, which thynne turned into _ne fende_. . it is remarkable how often lydgate describes his hand as 'quaking'; see schick's note to the temple of glas, . chaucer's hand quaked but once; troil. iv. . cf. note to xxii. (p. ). . _suppryse_, undertake, endeavour to do. _suppryse_ is from o.f. _sousprendre_, for which godefroy gives the occasional sense 'entreprendre.' . _lose_, praise; _out of lose_, out of praise, discreditable. . perhaps this means that chaucer's decease was a very recent event. schick proposes to date this piece between and . . chaucer invokes clio at the beginning of troilus, bk. ii. (l. ); and calliope at the beginning of bk. iii. (l. ). . cf. compl. mars, , . the metre almost seems to require an accent on the second syllable of _valentyn_, with suppressed final _e_; but a much more pleasing line, though less regular, can be made by distributing the pauses artificially thus: upón . the dáy of . saint válen . týne . sínge. the word _saint_ is altogether unemphatic; cf. ll. , . . _fetheres ynde_, blue feathers; possibly with a reference to blue as being the colour of constancy. cf. _floures inde_; viii. . . the woodbine is an emblem of constancy, as it clings to its support; cf. xx. - . § x. in commendation of our lady. , . in l. , _fere_ is the kentish form of 'fire.' in l. , thynne again prints _fere_, but ms. a. has _hyre_ (not a rime), and ms. sl. has _were_, which means 'doubt,' and is the right word. . for _her_, we must read _his_, as in l. . the reference is to love or cupid; see viii. , and the note. . cf. 'o wind, o wind, the weder ginneth clere,' &c.; troil. ii. . observe that chaucer invokes _cleo_ (clio) in his next stanza. . we may compare this invocation with chaucer's abc, and his introduction to the second nonnes tale; but there is not much resemblance. observe the free use of alliteration throughout ll. - . . 'o pleasant ever-living one' seems to be meant; but it is very obscure. notice that the excellent sloane ms. has _o lusty lemand_ (= _leming_), o pleasant shining one. perhaps we should read _leming_ for _living_; cf. l. . . cf. 'haven of refut'; abc, . _up to ryve_, to arrive at; see _rive_ in halliwell. . the five joys of the virgin are occasionally alluded to. see the poem on this subject in an old eng. miscellany, ed. morris, p. . the five joys were ( ) at the annunciation; ( ) when she bore christ; ( ) when christ rose from the dead; ( ) when she saw him ascend into heaven; ( ) at her own assumption into heaven. . 'and cheering course, for one to complain to for pity.' very obscure. . _propyne_, give to drink; a usage found in the vulgate version of jer. xxv. : 'sume calicem ... et _propinabis_ de illo cunctis gentibus.' . cf. _magnificence_ in ch. sec. nonnes tale, g . . _put in prescripcioun_, i.e. prescribed, recommended. . cf. 'i flee for socour to thy tente'; abc, . . _itinerárie_, a description of the way. . _bravie_, prize, especially in an athletic contest; lat. _brauium_, gk. [greek: brabeion], in cor. ix. . see note to c. t., d . . _diourn denárie_, daily pay, as of a penny a day; referring to matt. xx. : 'conventione autem facta cum operariis ex _denario diurno_.' . _laureat crowne_, crown of laurel. . _palestre_, a wrestling-match; cf. troil. v. . . _lake_, fine white linen cloth; as in c. t., b . . _citole_, harp; as in c. t., a . . 'the wedded turtel, with her herte trewe'; parl. foules, . . _phebus_; here used, in an extraordinary manner, of the holy spirit, as being the spirit of wisdom; perhaps suggested by the mention of the _columbe_ (or dove) in l. . . here thynne prints _dyametre_, but the sloane ms. corrects him. . _fewe feres_, few companions; i.e. few equals. , . _loupe_; cf. f. _loupe_, an excrescence, fleshy kernel, knot in wood, lens, knob. it was also a term in jewellery. littré has: 'pierre précieuse que la nature n'a pas achevée. loupe de saphir, loupe de rubis, certaines parties imparfaites et grossières qui se trouvent quelquefois dans ces pierres.' hence it is not a very happy epithet, but lydgate must have meant it in a good sense, as expressing the densest portion of a jewel; hence his 'stable (i.e. firm) as the loupe.' similarly he explains _ewage_ as being 'fresshest of visage,' i.e. clearest in appearance. _ewage_ was a term applied to a jacinth of the colour of sea-water; see new e. dict. and p. plowman, b. ii. ; but it is here described as _blue_, and must therefore refer to a stone of the colour of water in a lake. . read _hértè_ for the scansion; but it is a bad line. it runs:--and hém . recéyvest . wíth . hértè . ful tréwe. . _gladded_, gladdened; referring to the annunciation. . _obumbred_, spread like a shadow; 'uirtus altissimi _obumbrabit_ tibi'; luke, i. . this explains _to thee_, which answers to _tibi_. . this stanza refers to christ rather than to mary; see l. . but mary is referred to as the _ground_ on which he built (l. ). . cf. isaiah, xi. ; jerem. xxiii. . . _corn_, grain; 'suscitabo dauid germen iustum'; jer. xxiii. . cf. 'ex semine dauid uenit christus; john, vii. . . _ground_; the ground upon which it pleased him to build. referring to mary. . _vytre_, glass; lat. _uitreum_. the virgin was often likened to glass; sun-rays pass through it, and leave it pure. . _tytan_, sun; curiously applied. christ seems to be meant; see l. . but _thy_ in l. again refers to mary. hence, in l. (as in ) we should read _his_ for _thy_. . _sunamyte_, shunammite; lat. _sunamitis_, kings, iv. . she was an emblem of the virgin, because her son was raised from the dead. . _mesure_, moderate, assuage. _margaryte_, pearl; as an epithet of the virgin. . _punical pome_, pomegranate; pliny has _punicum malum_ in this sense; nat. hist. xiii. . . _bouk and boon_, body and bone; see _bouk_ in the new e. dict. . _agnelet_, little lamb; not in the new e. dict., because this stanza is now first printed. . _habounde_, abundant; of this adj. the new e. dict, gives two examples. . _cockle_, shell; referring to the shell in which the pearl was supposed to be generated by dew. see note to i. ii. . , p. . . 'o bush unbrent'; c. t., b ; see the note, _fyrles_, set on fire without any fire (i.e. without visible cause). . referring to gideon's fleece; judges, vi. . . referring to aaron's rod that budded; heb. ix. . . _misty_, mystic; cf. 'mysty, _misticus_,' in prompt. parv. _arke_, ark; the ark of the covenant. _probatik_; certainly the right reading (as in ms. sl.), instead of _probatyf_ or _probatyfe_, as in a. and thynne. the reference is to the o.f. phrase _piscine probatique_, which godefroy explains as being a cistern of water, near solomon's temple, in which the sheep were washed before being sacrificed. the phrase was borrowed immediately from the vulgate version of john v. : 'est autem ierosolymis _probatica piscina_, quae cognominatur hebraice bethsaida'; i.e. the reference is to the well-known pool of bethesda. the greek has: [greek: epi têi probatikêi kolumbêthra]. the etymology is obvious, from gk. [greek: probaton], a sheep. we may translate the phrase by 'sheep-cleansing pool.' cotgrave explains it very well; he has: '_piscine probatique_, a pond for the washing of the sheep that were, by the law, to be sacrificed.' . _aurora_, dawn; mentioned in ch. l. g. w. . cf. 'al the orient _laugheth_'; c. t., a . and cf. 'th'olyve of pees'; parl. foules, . . 'column, with its base, which bears up (or supports) out of the abysmal depth.' . 'why could i not be skilful?' . i make up this line as best i can; the readings are all bad. note that, at this point, the ms. copies come to an end, and so does the alliteration. poem no. xi is joined on to no. x in thynne without any break, but is obviously a different piece, addressed to an earthly mistress. § xi. to my soverain lady. . imitated from c. t., b : 'i ne have noon english digne,' &c. cf. l. . and see the introduction. . 'for if i could sing what i feel in love, i would (gladly do so).' . 'i have all my trust in thee.' the scansion is got by grouping the syllables thus: j'áy . en vóus . tóute . má . fiáunce. it is a line of the lydgate type, in which the first syllable in the normal line, and the first syllable after the cæsura, are alike dropped. . _thou knette_, mayst thou knit; the subj. or optative mood. . this quotation is most interesting, being taken from the first line in 'merciless beauty'; ch. minor poems; no. xi. cf. l. . . _it is_; pronounced either as _it's_ or _'t is_. the latter sounds better. . the substitution of _ginne_ for _beginne_ much improves the line. _on esperaunce_, in hope. . _in o degree_, (being) always in one state. . 'weep for me, if a lover pleases you.' . 'so much it grieves to be away from my lady.' . 'now my heart has what it wished for.' . _were_, should be, ought to be (subjunctive). . _go love_, go and love, learn to love. _wher_, whether. . _and also_, including. the 'fair' rosamond is mentioned in p. plowman, b. xii. ; which shews that her name was proverbial. . 'embrace me closely with a joyful heart.' . 'the ardent hope that pricks my heart, is dead; the hope--to gain the love of her whom i desire.' . 'and i know well that it is not my fault; (the fault of me) who sing for you, as i may, by way of lament at your departure.' o.f. _sai_, i know, is a correct form. . _sad_, fixed, resolute, firm, constant. § xii. ballad of good counsel. . cf. prov. xvii. : 'he that hath a perverse tongue falleth into mischief.' . _equipolent_, equal in power; used by hoccleve (new e. dict.). . _peregal_, the same as _paregal_, fully equal; troil. v. . . i follow the order of stanzas in ms. h. (harl. ), which is more complete than any other copy, as it alone contains ll. - . th. and ff. transpose this stanza and the next one. . _amorous_ is evidently used as a term of disparagement, i.e. 'wanton.' . _this is_; pronounced as _this_, as often elsewhere. . _deslavee_, loose, unchaste; see gloss. to chaucer. . accent _dévourour_ on the first syllable. . _dissolucioun_, dissolute behaviour. - . in harl. only. in l. , read _is_; the ms. has _in_. . the missing word is obviously _mene_, i.e. middling; missed because the similar word _men_ happened to follow it. . _prudent_ seems here to be used in a bad sense; cf. mod. e. 'knowing.' . in the course of ll. - , lydgate contrives to mention all the nine worthies except godfrey of bouillon; i.e. he mentions david, joshua, judas maccabaeus, hector, julius caesar, alexander, charles (charlemagne), and king arthur. his other examples are solomon, troilus, tullius cicero, seneca, and cato; all well known. . thynne has--'with _al_ alisaundres.' the word _al_ is needless, and probably due to repeating the first syllable of _alisaundre_. . we now come to examples of famous women. _hestre_ is esther, and _griseldes_, the grisildis of chaucer's clerkes tale. others are judith (in the apocrypha), polyxena, penelope, helen, medea, marcia the daughter of marcus cato uticensis (see note to legend of good women, ), and alcestis. they are all taken from chaucer; esther, polyxena, penelope, helen, 'marcia catoun,' are all mentioned in the 'balade' in legend of good women, prologue, b-text, - ; and alcestis is the heroine of the same prologue. the legend contains the story of medea at length; and judith is celebrated in the monkes tale. see the similar list in ix. - . . for _policenes_, ff. has _penilops_ (!); but penelope is mentioned in l. . _policenes_ is right; see ix. . . for _eleynes_, the printed editions have the astonishing reading _holynesse_, a strange perversion of _heleynes_. . _kerve_, cut; suggested by chaucer's use of _forkerveth_ in the manciple's tale, h . this _is_ tolerably certain, as in l. he again refers to the same tale, h - . . chaucer does not mention cato; he merely says--'thus lerne children whan that they ben yonge.' both chaucer and lydgate had no doubt been taught some of the sayings of dionysius cato in their youth; for see troil. iii. - . this particular precept occurs in the third distich in cato's first book; i.e. almost at the very beginning. see note to c. t., h (vol. v. p. ). § xiii. beware of doubleness. this piece is gently ironical throughout, as, for example, in ll. , , , , , &c. . _abit_, abideth, abides, remains, is constant. (footnote). the remark in the margin--'per antifrasim'--simply means that the text is ironical. . _tache_, defect; this is shakespeare's _touch_, in the same sense; troilus and cressida, iii. . . . _sliper_, slippery; a.s. _slipor_; as in xvi. . cf. hf. , and the note. . 'who can (so) guide their sail as to row their boat with craft.' not clearly put. is there a reference to wade's boat? cf. c. t., e , and the note. the irony seems here to be dropped, as in ll. , . . _sys and sink_, six and five, a winning throw at hazard; see c. t., b , and the note. _avaunce_, get profit, make gain. , . here _sette_ seems to mean 'lay a stake upon,' in the game of hazard; when, if the player throws double aces (_ambes as_), he loses; see the note on c. t., b as above; and see _ambs-ace_ in the new e. dict. it is amusing to find that stowe so wholly misunderstood the text as to print _lombes, as_ (see footnote on p. ); for _lombes_ means 'lambs'! . _innocence_ is, i suppose, to be taken ironically; but the constancy of rosamond and cleopatra is appealed to as being real. for the ballad of 'fair rosamond,' see percy's reliques of ancient poetry. 'her chiefest foes did plaine confesse she was a glorious wight.' , . _sengle_, single. _oo-fold_, one-fold, as distinct from _double_. see the whimsical praise of 'double' things in hood's miss kilmansegg, in the section entitled 'her honeymoon.' § xiv. a balade: warning men, etc. . _see at y_, see by the outward appearance; cf. c. t., g , . this balade resembles no. xiii. cf. l. with xiii. , . . _et_, eateth, eats. this contracted form evidently best suits the scansion. the copy in ms. t. had originally _ette_, mis-spelt for _et_, with _ettyth_ written above it, shewing that the old form _et_ was obsolescent. _et_ (eateth) occurs in p. plowman, c. vii. ; and again, in the same, b. xv. , the mss. have _eet_, _eteth_, _ette_, with the same sense. 'the blind eat many flies' is given in hazlitt's collection of proverbs. skelton has it, works, ed. dyce, i. ; and hazlitt gives four more references. . _geson_, scarce, rare, seldom found; see note to p. plowman, b. xiii. . . remember to pronounce _this is_ (_this's_) as _this_. . a common proverb; see note to c. t., g . . 'but ay fortune hath in hir hony galle'; c. t., b . . the proverbial line quoted in t. is here referred to, viz. 'fallere, flere, nere, tria sunt hec in muliere.' in the margin of the corpus ms. of the c. t., opposite d , is written--'fallere, flere, nere, dedit deus in muliere.' see that passage in the wife's preamble. . _sleight_; pronounced (_sleit_), riming with _bait_; shewing that the _gh_ was by this time a negligible quantity. . the reference is to the proverb quoted in the note to c. t., b (vol. v. p. ):-- 'vento quid leuius? fulgur; quid fulgure? flamma. flamma quid? mulier. quid muliere? nichil.' hence _light_ in l. should be _leit_, as it means 'lightning'; which explains 'passeth in a throw,' i.e. passes away instantly. we also see that lydgate's original varied, and must have run thus:-- 'aëre quid leuius? fulgur; quid fulgure? uentus. vento quid? mulier. quid muliere? nichil.' . curiously imitated in the modern song for children:-- 'if all the world were paper, and all the sea were ink, and all the trees were bread and cheese, what _should_ we do for drink?' the baby's bouquet, p. . § xv. three sayings. (a). . _honour_, i.e. advancement. the lat. proverb is--'honores mutant mores'; on which ray remarks--'as poverty depresseth and debaseth a man's mind, so great place and estate advance and enlarge it, but many times corrupt and puff it up.' _outrage_, extravagant self-importance. § xvi. la belle dame. - . the first four stanzas are original; so also are the four at the end. these stanzas have seven lines; the rest have eight. . read _called_ as _call'd_; _bell-e_ and _dam-e_ are dissyllabic. . _aleyn_; i.e. alain chartier, a french poet and prose writer, born in , who died in . he lived at the court of charles vi and charles vii, to whom he acted as secretary. besides la belle dame sans merci, he wrote several poems; in one of these, called le livre de quatre dames, four ladies bewail the loss of their lovers in the battle of agincourt. he also wrote some prose pieces, chiefly satirical; his _curial_, directed against the vices of the court, was translated by caxton. caxton's translation was printed by him in , and reprinted by the early english text society in . the best edition of chartier's works is that by a. duchesne (paris, ); a new edition is much wanted. . i here quote the original of this stanza, as it settles the right reading of l. , where some mss. have _eyen_ or _eyn_ for _pen_. 'qui vouldroit mon vouloir contraindre a ioyeuses choses escrire, _ma plume_ n'y sçauroit attaindre, non feroit ma langue à les dire. ie n'ay bouche qui puisse rire que les yeulx ne la desmentissent: car le cueur l'en vouldroit desdire par les lermes qui des yeulx issent.' . the original french is clearer:-- 'je laisse aux amoureulx malades, qui ont espoir d'allegement, faire chansons, ditz, et ballades.' , . _forcer_, casket; _unshet_, opened; _sperd_, fastened, locked up. (footnote). _deedly_, inanimate, dull, sleepy; an unusual use of the word. only in thynne, who seems to be wrong. , . _som_, i.e. some male guests. _their juges_, (apparently) the ladies who ruled them, whom they wooed; cf. l. . _demure_, serious, grave; an early example of the word; cf. xx. , xxi. . . _most fresshest_, who had most newly arrived; 'tels y ot qui à l'heure vinrent.' . _scole-maister_, i.e. his mistress who ruled him; cf. _her_ in l. . . the right reading is _shot_, as in thynne and ms. ff., which are usually better authorities than mss. f. and h. the original has:-- 'i'apperceu le _trait_ de ses yeulx tout empenné d'humbles requestes.' , . _mes_, dish or course of meats. _entremes_, ill-spelt _entremass_ in barbour's bruce, xvi. ; on which my note is: 'it is the o.f. _entremes_, now spelt _entremets_, [to mark its connection with f. _mettre_; but] _mets_, o.f. _mes_, is the lat. _missum_ [accusative of _missus_], a dish as _sent in_ or served at table (brachet). an _entremes_ is a delicacy or side-dish (lit. a between-dish)'; and i added a reference to the present passage. it is here used ironically. . _chase_, chose; apparently, a northern form. . _apert_, as in ms. ff., is obviously right; _pert_, as still in use, is due to the loss of the former syllable. _prevy nor apert_, neither secretly nor openly, i.e. in no way; just as in ch. c. t., f . . _frounter_; answering here, not to o.f. _frontier_, forehead, but to o.f. _frontiere_, front rank of an army, line of battle; whence the phrase _faire frontiere a_, to make an attack upon (godefroy). so here, the lady's beauty was exactly calculated to make an attack upon a lover's heart. sir r. ros has 'a frounter _for_'; he should rather have written 'a frounter _on_.' the original has:--'pour faire au cueur d'amant _frontiere_'; also _garnison_ in the preceding line. . 'car ioye triste cueur traueille.' sir r. ros actually takes _triste_ with _ioye_ instead of with _cueur_. there are several other instances in which he does not seem to have understood his original. see below. . _trayle_, trellis-work, or lattice-work, intertwined with pliant thick-leaved branches; godefroy has o.f. '_treille_, _traille_, treillis, treillage'; cf. l. . the original has:--'si m'assis dessoubz une treille.' a note explains _dessoubz_ as _derriere_. . _neer_, nearer; as in l. . _sought_, attacked (him). . 'et se par honneur et sans blasme ie suis vostre.' that is, if i am yours, with honour _to myself_. but the translator transfers the _worship_, i.e. the honour, to the lady. . 'which promised utterly to deprive me of my trust.' . _other or me_, me or some one else. but the french is:--'se moy ou autre vous regarde,' if i or some one else look at you; which is quite a different thing. - . obscure, and perhaps wrong; the original is:-- 's'aucun blesse autruy d'auenture par coulpe de celuy qui blesse, quoi qu'il n'en peult mais par droicture, si en a il dueil et tristesse.' - . 'que peu de chose peult trop plaire et vous vous voulez deceuoir.' . 'it were less harm for one to be sad than two.' . read _sory_: 'd'ung _dolent_ faire deux joyeulx.' . _rechace_, chasing it back, which gives small sense; and the reading _richesse_ is worse, and will not rime. the french has _rachatz_ = mod. f. _rachat_, redemption, ransom; which has been misunderstood. . 'preuue ses parolles par oeuure.' . _their_ is an error for _his_ (love's), due to the translator. 'lors il [amour] descouure sa fierté.' . 'tant plus aspre en est la poincture, et plus desplaisant le deffault.' . _oon_, one; i.e. the same. ms. ff. has _wone_, a very early example of the prefixed sound of _w_, as in modern english. see zupitza's notes to guy of warwick. . something is wrong. the french is:--'la mesure faulx semblant porte'; meaning (i suppose) moderation has a false appearance. . _as think_, i.e. pray think; see _as_ in the gloss. in vol. vi. . 'a constrained reward, and a gift offered by way of thanks, cannot agree'; i.e. are quite different. . _wanteth_, is wanting, is lacking. . 'qui soit donné à autre office.' . 'd'assez grant charge se cheuit,' he gets rid of a great responsibility. the translator gives the contrary sense. . 'd'en donner à qui les reffuse.' . that _he_, not _who_, should begin the line, is certain by comparison with the french:--'_il_ ne doit pas cuider muser.' . _me mistook_, that i mistook myself, that i made a mistake. , . _prevayl you_, benefit you; _after_, according to. - . _after-game_, return-match, a second game played by one who has lost the first. i believe l. to mean 'who cannot thoroughly afford to double his stakes.' to _set_ often means to stake. the french is:-- 'et celuy pert le ieu d'attente qui ne scet faire son point double.' . _it ar_, they are. this use of _ar_ with _it_ is due to the pl. sb. _fantasyes_ (i.e. vain fancies) immediately following; _other counsayl_ is equivalent to 'as for any other counsel,' which implies that there are more alternatives than one. . 'who would like to conduct himself,' i.e. to regulate his conduct. 'qui la veult conduire et ne peult.' . read _sute_: 'desespoir le met de sa _suite_.' . 'ne de l'aprendre n'ay-ie cure.' . 'et le deuoir d'amours payer qui franc cueur a, prisé et droit.' . _that_ is a mere conjunction; the reading _which_ alters the sense, and gives a false meaning. . _let_, makes as though he knew not; french, 'scet celler.' , . _hath set_; 'mettroit en mes maulx fin et terme.' line should begin with _then_ rather than _yet_, as there is no contrast. . 'de tous soit celuy deguerpiz.' . _or anything at al_, &c.; 'et le bien fait de sa dame qui l'a reffait et ramené de mort a vie'; i.e. and the kindness of his lady, who has new made him, and brought him back from death to life. the english follows some different reading, and is obscurely expressed. . 'a qui l'en puisse recourir'; to whom he could have recourse. but _recourir_ has been read as _recovrir_, giving no good sense. . the reading _high_ is right; 'que iamais _hault_ honneur ne chiet.' . _reclaymed_, taught to come back; a term in falconry; french, 'bien reclamez.' opposed to _hem to withholde_, i.e. to keep themselves from coming back. . 'et si bien aprins qu'ils retiennent a changer dés qu'ils ont clamez.' . _fol_, foolish; f. text, 'fol plaisir.' . _to have better_, to get a better lover. but the sense is wrongly given. in the french, this clause goes with what follows:--'d'auoir mieulx ne vous affiez,' i.e. expect to get nothing better. . _to have better_, to get a better lover. . 'et prenez en gré le reffus.' . the original shews that _she_ really refers to _pity_, denoted by _it_ in l. , not to the lady herself. . 'et iamais á bout n'en vendrez.' . _by_; french, _de_; hence _by_ should be _of_. read _defame of cruelty_, an ill name for cruelty. the mistake is the translator's. . _male-bouche_, slander; a name probably taken from the rom. de la rose, ; called _wikked-tonge_ in the english version, . . _playn_, (all equally) flat. 'la terre n'est pas toute unie.' . _be nought_, are naughty, are wicked; as in k. lear, ii. . . . 'que si tost mis en obli a.' . _avantours_, boasters; see l. . f. text, 'venteus'; cf. '_vanteux_, vaunting'; cotgrave. . _refus_, i.e. denial; personified. 'reffuz a ses chasteaulx bastiz.' . the last four stanzas are original. note the change from the -line to the -line stanza. § xvii. the testament of cresseid. this sequel to chaucer's 'troilus,' written by robert henryson of dunfermline, is in the northern dialect of the scottish lowlands. thynne has not made any special attempt to alter the wording of this piece, but he frequently modifies the spelling; printing _so_ instead of _sa_ (l. ), _whan_ for _quhen_ (l. ), _right_ for _richt_ (l. ), and so on. i follow the edinburgh edition of . see further in the introduction. . _ane_, a; altered by thynne to _a_, throughout. _dooly_ (th. _doly_), doleful, sad; from the sb. _dool_, sorrow. - . here _fervent_ seems to mean 'stormy' or 'severe,' as it obviously does not mean hot. _discend_ is used transitively; _can discend_ means 'caused to descend.' this is an earlier example than that from caxton in the new eng. dictionary. _aries_ clearly means the influence of aries, and implies that the sun was in that sign, which it entered (at that date) about the th of march; see vol. iii. p. (footnote). _lent_ is 'spring'; and the old germanic method is here followed, which divided each of the seasons into three months. in this view, the spring-months were march, april, and may, called, respectively, foreward lent, midward lent, and afterward lent; see a student's pastime, p. . hence the phrase in _middis of the lent_ does not mean precisely in the middle of the spring, but refers to the month of april; indeed, the sun passed out of aries into taurus on the th of the month. the date indicated is, accordingly, the _first week in april_, when the sun was still in aries, and showers of hail, with a stormy north wind, were quite seasonable. . _sylit under cure_, covered up, (as if) under his care. the verb _to syle_ is precisely the mod. e. _ceil_; which see in the new e. dict. . _unto_, i.e. over against. the planet venus, rising in the east, set her face over against the west, where the sun had set. . _shill_, shrill. _shille_ occurs as a variant of _schrille_ in c. t., b ; see _schil_ in stratmann. . _douf_ (spelt _doif_ in the old edition) is the northern form of 'deaf,' answering to the icel. _daufr_; thus a nut without a kernel is called in the south 'a deaf nut,' but in scotland 'a douf nit'; see jamieson. for _deaf_ in the senses of 'dull' and 'unproductive,' see the new e. dict. . _cut_, curtail; illustrated from lydgate in the new e. dict. . read _lusty_, to avoid the repetition of _worthy_; cf. l. . it should have been stated, in the footnotes, that the readings are: e. worthy; th. lusty. . referring to troil. bk. v. in l. , we are told how diomede led criseyde away. note particularly that, in l. , henryson quotes chaucer rather closely. cf. 'for which wel neigh out of my wit i breyde'; troil. v. . and cf. ll. - with--'betwixen hope and drede his herte lay'; troil. v. . . _quhill_, till. the reading _esperus_ in e. is comic enough. even thynne has misread _esperans_, and has turned it into _esperous_. there can be little doubt that _esperans_ here means 'hope,' as it is opposed to _wanhope_ in the line above. the word was known to henryson, as we find, in st. of his garment of gude ladyis: 'hir slevis suld be of _esperance_, to keip hir _fra dispair_.' cf. l. . . _behest_, promise; because she had promised to return to troy within ten days; troil. iv. . . _this narratioun_, i.e. the sequel of the story, which he is about to tell. he does not tell us whence he derived it, but intimates that it is a fiction; i suppose he invented it himself. . _lybel of répudy_, lat. 'libellum repudii,' as in matt. xix. . . 'and, as some say, into the common court'; i.e. she became a courtesan. . _a-per-se_, i.e. the first letter of the alphabet, standing alone. a letter that was also a word in itself, as _a_, or _i_, or _o_, was called 'per se,' because it could stand alone. of these, the _a-per-se_ was a type of excellence. one of dunbar's poems (ed. small, i. ) begins:--'london, thou art of townes _a-per-se_.' . _fortunait_, the sport of fortune; oddly used, as it implies that she was 'an unfortunate.' cf. l. . . _but_, without; and thynne actually prints _without_ in place of it. . _quhair_, where her father calchas (was). he was living among the greeks; troil. i. , . . in the medieval legend, calchas was not a priest of venus, but of apollo, as chaucer notes; see troil. i. - . so also in lydgate, siege of troy, bk. ii. c. . henryson probably altered this intentionally, because it enabled him to represent criseyde as reproaching her father's god; see ll. , . . _outwaill_, outcast; one who is chosen out and rejected; from the verb _wail_, _ wale_, to choose. there seems to be no other example of the word, though jamieson gives '_outwailins_, leavings, things of little value.' . _forlane_ can hardly mean 'left alone.' if so, it would be a word invented for the occasion, and improperly formed from _lane_, which is itself a docked form of _alane_. in all other passages _forlane_ or _forlain_ is the pp. of _forliggen_; and the sense of 'defiled' is quite applicable. and further, it rimes with _slane_, which means 'slain.' . 'and, as it seemed, she heard, where she lay,' &c. . the seven planets; which, in the order of the magnitude of their orbits, are saturn, jupiter, mars, the sun, venus, mercury, and the moon. and to this order the author carefully adheres throughout ll. - . . _fronsit_, wrinkled; _frounse_ is the mod. e. _flounce_, which formerly meant 'a pleat'; see _frounce_, _frouncen_ in stratmann, and the gloss. to chaucer. misprinted _frosnit_ in e. 'his complexion was like lead.' lead was saturn's metal; see c. t., g , and the note. . that _gyte_ is the correct reading, is obvious from ll. , , where thynne has preserved it. it is a chaucerian word; see the glossary in vol. vi. it seems to mean 'mantle.' the edinburgh printer altered it to _gyis_, which is too general a term, at least in l. . . 'to ward off from us the wrath of his father (saturn).' . compare ch. c. t., f --'god and governour of every plaunte, herbe, tree, and flour.' . alluding to phaethon's misguidance of the chariot of the sun; 'and that his faders cart amis he dryve'; troil. v. . laing prints _unricht_; but omits to say that e. has _upricht_. . _soyr_, sorrel-coloured, reddish-brown; see _sorrel_ in my etym. dict. - . the names of the four horses are curiously corrupted from the names given in ovid, met. ii. , viz. eöus, Æthon, pyröeis, and phlegon. as _eous_ means 'belonging to the dawn,' we may consider the words _into the orient_, i.e. in the east, as explanatory of the name _eoy_; 'called eoy, (which signifies) in the east.' as to the name of the last horse, it was obviously meant to take the form _philegoney_, in order to rime with _sey_ (sea), and i have therefore restored this form. the two authorities, e. and th., give it in the amazing form _philologie_ (_philologee_), which can only mean 'philology'! . _lauch_ and _weip_ are infinitives, but appear to be meant for past tenses. if so, the former should be _leuch_; _weip_ may answer to the strong pt. t. _weep_ in chaucer (a.s. _w[=e]op_). . he seems to be thinking of chaucer's doctor of phisyk; cf. ch. prol. a - , . . 'the last of all (in order), and swiftest in her orbit.' . thynne has _tapere_ = to appear; this passage is curiously cited, in richardson's dictionary, in illustration of the sb. _taper_! . _churl_, man; this is chaucer's _cherl_, in troil. i. . see the note to that line. . _na nar_, no nearer; the moon's orbit, being the least, was the most remote from the outer heaven that enclosed the _primum mobile_. . _shew_, shewed; but it is false grammar, for the verb to _shew_ (or _show_) was weak. formed by analogy with _blew_, _grew_, _knew_; cf. _rew_, _mew_, _sew_, old strong preterites of _row_, _mow_, and _sow_. . as henryson usually refrains from the addition of a syllable at the cæsura, we should probably read _injure_, not _injury_; see troil. iii. . , . _hyest_, i.e. saturn; _lawest_ (lowest), i.e. cynthia. . _modify_, determine, specify; not here used in the modern sense. . heat and moisture characterised the _sanguine_ temperament (see vol. v. p. ); coldness and dryness characterised the melancholy temperament (see p. plowman, b-text, p. xix). cf. l. . . 'with cup and clapper, like a leper.' it was usual for lepers to carry a cup (for their own use), and a clapper or clap-dish, which was used in order to give warning of their approach, and also as a receptacle for alms, to prevent actual contact; cf. l. below. compare the following:-- 'coppe and claper he bare ... as he a mesel [_leper_] were.'--sir tristrem, . 'than beg her bread with dish and clap' (referring to criseyde). turbervile's poems: the lover in utter dispaire. see further under _clapper_ in the new eng. dict. _lazarous_ is formed as an adj. in _-ous_ from the sb. _lazar_, a leper; see l. . . _wa_, woful; 'god knows if she was woful enough.' . the accent on the second syllable of _hospital_ was not uncommon; hence its frequent contraction to _spittal_ or _spittel-house_; for which see l. below. . read _bevar_ or _bever_ (th. has _beuer_); the reading _bawar_ in e. gives no sense. i see no connection with lowl. sc. _bevar_, 'one who is worn out with age,' according to jamieson, who merely guesses at the sense, as being perhaps allied to _bavard_, which he also explains as 'worn out'; although, if from the f. _bavard_, it rather means talkative, babbling, or idle. i believe that _bevar hat_ simply means 'beaver hat,' formerly used by women as well as by men. even dickens alludes to 'farmer's wives in beaver bonnets,' in martin chuzzlewit, ch. . no doubt a beaver hat was, when new, an expensive luxury, as worn by chaucer's 'merchant' (prol. l. ); but they wore well and long, and were doubtless gladly used by beggars when cast off by their original owners. . the metre, in ll. - , is borrowed from chaucer's anelida. . _blaiknit_, is not a derivative of m.e. _blak_, black, but of m.e. _bl[=a]k_, _bleik_, bleak, pallid, cheerless. it is here used in the sense of 'rendered cheerless'; and _bair_ means 'bare' or 'barren.' see _bl[=a]kien_ in stratmann. . 'thy bale is in the growth,' or is sprouting. see _braird_, the first shoots of corn or grass, in the new e. dict., where two more examples of this phrase are cited from henryson. . 'with goodly bed, and convenient embroidered bench-covers.' _burelie_ (mod. e. _burly_, prov. e. _bowerly_) answers to an a.s. form _b[=u]r-l[=i]c_, i.e. suitable for a lady's bower. this explains why it was appropriately used as an epithet for a bed. cf. 'quhair ane _burely_ bed was wrocht in that wane'; rauf coilyear, . hence 'a burly knight' was one suitable for a lady's bower, and therefore handsome, strong, well-grown, large; and by a degradation of meaning, huge, corpulent. the changes in sense are curious and instructive. in the new e. dict., the etymology is not given. for _bene_, see _bain_ in the new e. dict.; and for _bankouris_, see _banker_. . _saipheroun sals_, saffron sauce. _saffron_ and _salt_ were often used together in medieval cookery; see two fifteenth-century cookery books, ed. austin (e. e. t. s.). the glossary to that book gives the spellings _safroun_, _saferon_, _saferoun_, and _sapheron_. . this is a very early mention of _lawn_. it is also mentioned in st. of lydgate's 'london lickpeny.' . _walk_, wake. the history of this spelling is not quite clear; but the _l_ was, in any case, mute; another spelling is _wauk_. i suspect that it originated in the misunderstanding of a symbol. the scribe, who wished to write _wakk_, used a symbol resembling _lk_, where the _l_ was _really_ the first _k_, indicated by its down-stroke only. for example, the word _rokke_ was (apparently) written _rolke_. see my article on ghost-words; phil. soc. trans. , p. . _tak the dew_, gather may-dew. the old custom of bathing the face with fresh dew on the st of may is referred to in brand's popular antiquities. he gives an example as late as . see pepys' diary, may , , may , ; where we find that _any_ day in may was then considered suitable for this health-giving operation. . i take _on every grane_ to mean 'in every particular'; cf. 'a _grain_ of sense.' we may also note the fr. _teindre en graine_, to dye in grain, to dye of a fast colour; and we occasionally find _grain_ in the sense of 'tint.' godefroy cites 'ung couvertoer d'une _graigne_ vermeille'; and 'une manche vermeille, ne sçay se c'est _graine_ ou autre taincture.' _grane_ also means 'groan,' and 'groin,' and 'fork of a tree'; but none of these senses suit. . 'take this leper-lodge in place of thy stately bower.' . in l. , we have _sop of sorrow_, i.e. sop, or sup, of sorrow. so here _sowpit in syte_, sopped, or drenched, in sorrow; an expression which jamieson illustrates from holland's houlate, i. , and douglas's vergil, prologue to book viii, l. . . this expression is imitated from chaucer's boethius, bk. iii. pr. . --'o glorie, glorie, thou art nothing elles but a greet sweller of eres!' see note to i. ii. . (p. ). . _leir_ (th. _lerne_); surely miscopied from l. . read _live_. . _lipper_ seems to be used collectively; so also in l. . . _shuik coppis_, shook their cups; it implies that they waved them aloft, to attract attention. they also used their clappers. . _ply_, plight. i know of no other example of _ply_ in this sense; but _ply_ (usually, a fold) and _plight_ (incorrect spelling of m.e. _plyte_) are closely related; the former represents lat. _plicitum_, the latter, lat. _plicita_; from _plicare_, to fold (whence e. _ply_, verb, to bend). . 'with many a sorrowful cry and cold _or_ sad (cry of) o hone!' here _cald_ = sad; and _ochane_ is the irish and scotch cry of _o hone!_ or _och hone!_ see _o hone_ in the century dict., s.v. _o_. . _will of wane_, lit. wild of weening, at a loss what to do. see gloss. to barbour's bruce, s.v. _will_. . 'and climbed so high upon the fickle wheel' (of fortune). cf. troil. iv. , . . 'for they (women) are as constant as a weathercock in the wind.' cf. '_unsad_ ... and chaunging as a vane'; ch. c. t., e . . _wellis_, streams, rills; as in book duch. . . _broche and belt_; criseyde gave diomede the brooch she had received from troilus; see troil. v. , , . the _belt_ is henryson's addition. . 'his heart was ready to burst.' § xviii. the cuckoo and the nightingale. in this piece, the final _-e_ is much used as forming a distinct syllable; indeed, more freely than in chaucer. , . quoted from the knightes tale, a - . . the word _of_ is inserted in th., ff. and s., and seems to be right; but as _hy-e_ should be two syllables, perhaps the words _and of_ were rapidly pronounced, in the time of a single syllable. or omit _and_. - . the lines of this stanza are wrongly arranged in thynne, and in every printed edition except the present one; i.e. the lines and are transposed. but as the rime-formula is _aabba_, it is easy to see that _suffyse_, _devyse_, _agryse_ rime together on the one hand, and _nyce_, _vyce_, on the other. the pronunciation _suffice_ is comparatively modern; in chaucer, the suffix _-yse_ was pronounced with a voiced _s_, i.e. as _z_. note the rimes _devyse_, _suffyse_ in the book of the duch. - ; _suffyse_, _wyse_, _devyse_, in the c. t., b - ; &c. the mss. ff., f., and b. all give the right arrangement. . _whom him lyketh_, him whom it pleases him (to gladden or sadden). , . _may_; cf. troil. ii. - ; rom. rose, - , - , - ; legend of good women, ; c. t., a - . . _of feling_, from experience. _spek-e_ is dissyllabic. . _hoot_, hot, i.e. hopeful; _cold_, full of despair; _acces_, feverish attack, as in troil. ii. , , . . _fevers whyte_, feverish attacks (of love) that turn men pale; the same as _blaunche fevere_ in troil. i. ; see note to that line. . _a comune tale_, a common saying. as a fact, one would expect to hear the cuckoo first. prof. newton, in his dict. of birds, says of the cuckoo, that it 'crosses the mediterranean from its winter-quarters in africa at the end of march or beginning of april. its arrival is at once proclaimed by the peculiar ... cry of the cock.' of the nightingale he says--'if the appearance of truth is to be regarded, it is dangerous to introduce a nightingale as singing in england before the th of april or after the th of june.' as the change of style makes a difference of days, this th of april corresponds to the rd of april in the time of chaucer. it is remarkable that hazlitt, in his proverbs, p. , gives the following:--'on the third of april, comes in the cuckoo and the nightingale'; which may once have been correct as regards the latter. hazlitt also says that, in sussex, the th of april is supposed to be 'first cuckoo-day'; whereas it would better apply to the nightingale. and again, another proverb says (p. )--'the nightingale and the cuckoo sing both in one month.' it is clear that, whatever the facts may be, our ancestors had a notion that these birds arrived nearly at the same time, and attached some importance, by way of augury, to the possibility of hearing the nightingale first. they must frequently have been disappointed. see milton's sonnet, as quoted in the introduction. . _of_, during; exactly as in l. . . read _inne_, the adverbial form; for the sake of the grammar and scansion. see _inne_ in the gloss. in vol. vi. p. . _been_ gives a false rime to _gren-e_ and _sen-e_; shewing that _grene_ and _sene_ are here monosyllabic (really _green_ and _seen_), instead of being dissyllabic, as in chaucer. _sene_ is the adj., meaning visible, not the pp., which then took the form _seyn_. . for _began_, which is singular, substitute the pl. form _begonne_. _to don hir houres_, to sing their matins, &c.; referring to the canonical hours of church-service. bell has the reading _to don honoures_, for which there is no early authority. morris unluckily adopts the meaningless reading found in mss. f. and b. . 'they knew that service all by rote,' i.e. by heart. bell actually explains _rote_ as a hurdy-gurdy; as to which see _rote_ (in senses and ) in the gloss. in vol. vi. p. . . _feverere_ seems to have been pronounced _fev'rer'_. surely it must be right. yet all the mss. (except t.) actually have _marche_ (written _mars_ in ff.), followed by _upon_, not _on_. even th. and t. have _upon_, not _on_; but it ruins the scansion, unless we adopt the reading _march_. it looks as if the author really _did_ write _marche_! , . _ron_, _mon_, for _ran_, _man_, are peculiar. as such forms occur in myrc and audelay (both shropshire authors) and in robert of gloucester, they are perfectly consistent with the supposition that they are due to clanvowe's connection with herefordshire. . _swow_, swoon; cf. book duch. . . as _brid_ is a monosyllable (cf. ll. , , , ), it is necessary to make _lew-ed-e_ a trisyllable; as also in l. . but it becomes _lew'de_ in ll. , . chaucer has _lew-ëd_, p. f. , &c. . _him_; the cuckoo is male, but the nightingale, by way of contrast, is supposed to be female. . _playn_, simple, having simple notes; cf. 'the plain-song cuckoo,' mids. nt. dr. iii. . . . _crakel_, 'trill or quaver in singing; used in contempt'; new e. dict. . _i_ seems to be strongly accented. it is a pity that there is no authority for inserting _for_ before it. otherwise, read _i hav-ë_. in old french, _oci oci_, represented the cry of the nightingale; godefroy gives examples from raoul de houdenc, froissart, and deschamps. moreover, _oci_ was also the imperative of the o.f. verb _ocire_, to kill; with which it is here intentionally confused. accordingly, the nightingale retorts that _oci_ means 'kill! kill!' with reference to the enemies of love. . _grede_, exclaim, cry out. not used by chaucer, though found in most dialects of middle-english. clanvowe may have heard it in herefordshire, as it occurs in langland, layamon, robert of gloucester, and in the coventry mysteries, and must have been known in the west. but it was once a very common word. from a.s. _gr[=æ]dan_. . _to-drawe_, drawn asunder; cf. havelok, ; will. of palerne, . . _yok_, yoke; cf. ch. c. t., e , . . _unthryve_, become unsuccessful, meet with ill luck. a very rare word; but it also occurs in the cursor mundi (fairfax ms.), l. , where it is said of adam that 'his wyf made him _to unthryve_.' . the first syllable of the line is deficient. accent _what_ strongly. cf. - below. . the sentiment that love teaches all goodness, is common at this time; see schick's note to lydgate's temple of glas, l. . . the true reading is doubtful. - . here the author produces a considerable metrical effect, by beginning all of these lines with a strong accent. there are three such consecutive lines in the wyf of bathes tale, d - . cf. ll. , , , , , , , , . . bell and morris read _haire_, without authority, and bell explains it by 'he may full soon have the _hair_ (!) which belongs to age, _scil._, grey hair, said to be produced by anxiety.' but the m.e. form of 'hair' is _heer_, which will not give a true rime; and the word _heyr_ represents the mod. e. _heir_. as the _h_ was not sounded, it is also written _eir_ (as in ms. t.) and _air_ (as in ms. s.). the sense is--'for he who gets a little bliss of love may very soon find that his heir has come of age, unless he is always devoted to it.' this is a mild joke, signifying that he will soon find himself insecure, like one whose heir or successor has come of age, and whose inheritance is threatened. on the other hand, 'to have one's hair of age' is wholly without sense. compare the next note. . 'and then you shall be called as _i_ am.' i. e. your loved one will forsake you, and you will be called a cuckold. this remark is founded on the fact that the o.f. _coucou_ or _cocu_ had the double sense of cuckoo and cuckold. see _cocu_ in littré. this explains l. . - . bell, by an oversight, omits this stanza. . this reading (from the best ms., viz. ff.) is much the best. the sense is--'and whom he hits he knows not, or whom he misses'; because he is blind. - . all the early printed editions crush these two stanzas into one, by omitting ll. - , and - , and altering _thoughte me_ (l. ) to _me aloon_. this is much inferior to the text. . _leve_, believe; yet all the authorities but s. have the reading _loue_! cf. l. . . _dayesye_, daisy. cf. legend of good women, - , - , . . _ye witen_ is the right reading; turned into _ye knowe_ in f. and b. the old printed editions actually read _the cuckowe_! . a syllable seems lacking after _i_; such lines are common in lydgate. the reading _y-chid_ would render the line complete; or we may read _hav-ë_, as perhaps in l. . . an obvious allusion to chaucer's parlement of foules, in which he gives 'the royal egle' the first place (l. ). . _the quene_; queen joan of navarre, second wife of henry iv, who received the manor of woodstock as part of her dower. . _lay_, lea; not a common word in m.e. poetry, though occurring in p. plowman. the parliament of birds required a large open space. . _terme_: during the whole term of my life; cf. c. t., g . § xix. envoy to alison. . _lewde book_, unlearned book. it is not known to what book this refers. it has nothing to do with the preceding poem. my guess, in vol. i. p. , that this piece might be hoccleve's, is quite untenable. his pieces are all known, and the metrical form is of later date. see the next note. . too long; perhaps _servant_ should be struck out. so in l. we could spare the word _als_. but ll. , , , , are all of an unconscionable length. - . i believe i was the first to detect the obvious acrostic on the name of alison; see vol. i. p. . the sense of ll. - (which are forced and poor) is--'i beseech (you) of your grace, let your writing (in reply) alleviate the sighs which i pour out in silence.' § xx. the flower and the leaf. i give numerous references below to 'a. l.', i.e. the assembly of ladies, printed at p. . the two poems have much in common. - . imitated from c. t., f ; see note in vol. v. p. . . _bole_, bull, taurus. the sun then entered taurus about the middle of april; hence the allusion to april showers in l. . compare the opening lines of chaucer's prologue. but we learn, from l. , that it was already may. hence the sun had really run half its course in taurus. _certeinly_; used at the end of the line, as in a. l. . . _very good_; this adverbial use of _very_ is noticeable; cf. ll. , , , and a. l. . i believe chaucer never uses _very_ to qualify an adjective. it occurs, however, in lydgate. . cf. '_more_ at _hertes ese_'; a. l. . . cf. 'at _springing of the day_'; a. l. . . cf. 'that ye wold help me _on_ with _myn aray_'; a. l. . - . this rime of _passe_ with _was_ occurs again below ( - ); and in a. l. - . . chaucer has _hew-ë_, _new-ë_; but here _hew_, _new_ rime with the pt. t. _grew_. so, in a. l. - , _hew_, _new_ rime with the pt. t. _knew_. - . copied from the book of the duch. - :-- 'and every tree stood by him-selve fro other wel ten foot or twelve.' . 'the young leaves of the oak, when they first burst from the bud, are of a red, cinereous colour'; bell. . cf. 'this proces _for to here_'; a. l. . and again, 'pitous _for to here_; a. l. . - . this seems to be a direct allusion to the cuckoo and the nightingale, ll. - :-- 'i wolde go som whider to assay if that i might _a nightingale here_; for yet had i non _herd of al this yere_.' - . from the book of the duch. - :-- 'doun by a floury grene wente _ful thikke of gras_, ful softe and swete,... _and litel used_, it semed thus.' cf. a. l. ; 'into a strait passage,' and the context. . _parde_; a petty oath (being in french), such as a female writer might use; so in a. l. . , . for the _herber_ and _benches_, see a. l. - ; also l. g. w. - . for the phrase _wel y-wrought_, see a. l. . . bell and morris read _wool_, which is obviously right; but neither of them mention the fact that _both_ speght's editions have _wel_; and there is no other authority! clearly, speght's ms. had _wol_, which he misread as _wel_. . _eglantere_, eglantine, sweet-briar. entered under _eglatere_ in the new e. dict., though the earlier quotations, in and , have _eglentere_. i find no authority for the form _eglatere_ except speght's misprint in this line, which he corrects in l. below. tennyson's _eglatere_ (dirge, ) is clearly borrowed from this very line. . _by mesure_; a tag which reappears in a. l. . . _by and by_; another tag, for which see a. l. , . . _i you ensure_; yet another tag; see l. , and a. l. , , , . . the final _e_ in _peyn-e_ is suppressed; so in a. l. , . . cf. 'and as they sought hem-self thus _to and fro_'; a. l. . . here _espyed_ rimes with _syde_, _wyde_; in a. l. , it rimes with _asyde_ and _gyde_. . the _goldfinch_ is afterwards opposed to the _nightingale_. hence he replaces the _cuckoo_ in the poem of the cuckoo and nightingale. just as the cuckoo and nightingale represent the faithless and the constant, so the goldfinch and the nightingale are attached, respectively, to the bright flower and the long-lasting leaf. this is explicitly said below; see ll. , . . _in this wyse_; appears also at the end of a line in a. l. ; cf. _in her gyse_, a. l. ; _in ful pitous wyse_, a. l. ; _in no maner wyse_, a. l. . , . these lines correspond to the cuckoo and nightingale, - . . _inly greet_, extremely great; cf. _inly fair_, a. l. . . 'ye wold it _thinke a_ very _paradyse_'; a. l. . . better _i set me doun_, as in a. l. . . 'withouten sleep, withouten mete or drinke'; l. g. w. (note the context). . here begins the description of the adherents of the leaf, extending to l. , including the nine worthies, ll. - . the reader must carefully bear in mind that the followers of the leaf are clad in _white_ (not in green, as we should now expect), though the nine worthies are crowned with green laurel, and all the company gather under a huge laurel-tree (l. ). on the other hand the followers of the flower, shortly described in ll. - , are clad in _green_, though wearing chaplets of white and red flowers; for green was formerly an emblem of _inconstancy_. . cf. '_to_ say you _very right_'; a. l. . . _oon and oon_, every one of them. this phrase is rare in chaucer; it seems only to occur once, in c. t., a ; but see a. l. , , . . _purfil_ occurs in a. l. , in the same line with _by and by_; and in a. l. - , we find _colour_, _sleves_, and _purfyl_ close together. . cf. 'with _grete perles_, ful fyne _and orient_'; a. l. . for _diamonds_, see a. l. . . borrowed from chaucer, parl. foules, : 'of whiche the name i wante.' hence _wante_, i.e. lack, is the right reading. the rime is imperfect. . the missing word is not _branches_, as suggested by sir h. nicolas, nor _floures_, as suggested by morris, but _leves_; as the company of _the leaf_ is being described; cf. l. . the epithets _fresh and grene_ are very suitable. the leaves were of laurel, woodbine, and _agnus-castus_. . for _were_ read _ware_; see ll. , , , ; the sense is _wore_. chaucer's form is _wered_, as the verb was originally weak; gower and lydgate also use the form _wered_. the present is perhaps one of the earliest examples of the strong form of this preterite. _agnus-castus_; 'from gk. [greek: agnos], the name of the tree, confused with [greek: agnos], chaste, whence the second word lat. _castus_, chaste. a tree, species of vitex (_v. agnus castus_), once believed to be a preservative of chastity, called also chaste-tree and abraham's balm'; new e. dict. the same dict. quotes from trevisa: 'the herbe agnus-castus is alwaye grene, and the flowre therof is namly callyd agnus castus, for wyth smelle and vse it makyth men chaste as a lombe.' . for _but_ morris reads _and_, which is simpler. . _oon_, one. she was the goddess diana (see l. ), or the lady of the leaf. . cf. 'that to beholde it was a greet plesaunce'; a. l. . . cf. 'though it were _for a king_'; a. l. . - . speght has _suse le foyle de vert moy_ in l. , and _seen et mon joly cuer en dormy_ in l. . i see little good in guessing what it ought to be; so i leave it alone, merely correcting _suse_ and _foyle_ to _sus_ and _foyl_; as the o.f. _foil_ was masculine. bell alters _de vert_ to _devers_, and for _seen_ puts _son_; and supplies _est_ after _cuer_; but it all gives no sense when it is done. we should have to read _sus le foyl devers moy sied, et mon joli cuer est endormi_; sit down upon the foliage before me, and my merry heart has gone to sleep. which can hardly be right. the assembly of ladies has the same peculiarity, of presenting unintelligible scraps of french to the bewildered reader. . _smal_, high, treble; chiefly valuable for explaining the same word in chaucer's balade to rosemounde. - . a parallel passage occurs in a. l. - . . _the large wones_, the spacious dwellings; cf. ch. c. t., d . . speght has _pretir_, an obvious error for _prester_. the authoress may easily have obtained her knowledge of prester john from a ms. of mandeville's travels; see cap. of that work. and see yule's edition of marco polo. he was, according to mandeville, one of the greatest potentates of asia, next to the great khan. . _cereal_; borrowed from chaucer:--'a _coroune_ of a grene _ook cerial_'; c. t., a . and chaucer took it from boccaccio; see note in vol. v. p. . . _trumpets_, i.e. trumpeters; as several times in shakespeare. cf. l. . . _tartarium_, thin silk from tartary. fully explained in my note to p. plowman, c. xvii. (b. xv. ), and in the glossary to the same. _bete_, lit. beaten; hence, adorned with beaten gold; see note to c. t., a (vol. v. p. ). _were_, (all of which) were; hence the plural. . read _bere_, as in l. ; a.s. _b[=æ]ron_, pt. t. pl. . _kinges of armes_, kings-at-arms; who presided over colleges of heralds. sir david lyndsay was lord lion king-at-arms. . cf. '_set with saphyrs_'; a. l. . . _vel-u-et_ is trisyllabic; as in the black knight, . . 'and certainly, they had nothing to learn as to how they should place the armour upon them.' . _in sute_, in their master's livery. . the celebrated nine worthies; see notes to iv. , xii. . . cf. '_and furred_ wel _with gray_'; a. l. . . _henshmen_, youths mounted on horseback, who attended their lords. see numerous quotations for this word in a student's pastime, §§ , , - . each of them is called _a child_, l. . . for _every on_, it is absolutely necessary to read _the first upon_; for the sense. each of the nine worthies had three henchmen; of these three, the first bore his helmet, the second his shield, and the third his spear. . bell and morris alter _nekke_ to _bakke_; but wrongly. the shields were carried by help of a strap which passed round the _neck_ and over the shoulders; called in old french a _guige_. the convenience of this arrangement is obvious. see note to c. t., a (vol. v. p. ). . in lydgate's temple of glas, , we are told that hawthorn-leaves do not fade; see ll. - below. . read _hors_, not _horses_; _hors_ is the true plural; see l. . . cf. '_trompes_, that ... blowen _blody sounes_'; c. t., a - . - . 'that _to beholde it was a greet plesaunce_'; a. l. . and again--'_i you ensure_'; a. l. . . i. e. the nine worthies; see ll. , . . the reading _ninth_ (as in speght) is an absurd error for _nine_; yet no one has hitherto corrected it. how could the ninth man alight from _their horses_? the 'remnant' were the twenty-seven henchmen and the other knights. . cf. 'see how they come _togider, twain and twain_'; a. l. . . cf. '_ful womanly_ she gave me,' &c.; a. l. . . 'laden with leaves, with boughs of great breadth.' . here begins the description of the company of the flower. they were clad in _green_. . cf. 'her gown was _wel embrouded_'; a. l. . . _bargaret_, a pastoral; a rustic song and dance; o.f. _bergerete_, from _berger_, a shepherd. godefroy notes that they were in special vogue at easter. . we have here the refrain of a popular french pastoral. warton suggests it may have been froissart's; but the refrain of froissart's ballade de la marguerite happens to be different: 'sur toutes flours j'aime la margherite'; see spec. of o. french, ed. toynbee, p. . in fact, warton proceeds to remark, that 'it was common in france to give the title of marguerites to studied panegyrics and flowery compositions of every kind.' it is quite impossible to say if a special compliment is intended; most likely, the authoress thought of nothing of the kind. she again mentions _margarettes_ in a. l. . . _in-fere_, together; very common at the end of a line, as in ll. , ; a. l. , , , , . . _withouten fail_; this tag recurs in a. l. , , in the form _withouten any fail_; and, unaltered, in a. l. , . . those in white, the party of the leaf. . _oon_, one of those in green; this was queen flora; see l. . . bell thinks this corrupt. i think it means, that, before engaging with them in jousts in a friendly manner, they procured some logs of wood and thoroughly dried them. hence _to make hir justës_ = in order to joust with them afterwards. . 'quickly anointing the sick, wherever they went.' . _for any thing_, in any case, whatever might happen; cf. c. t., a , and the note (vol. v. p. ). . 'for nothing was lacking that ought to belong to him.' . here the story ends, and the telling of the moral begins. . the meeting with a 'fair lady' was convenient, as she wanted information. in the assembly of ladies, this simple device is resorted to repeatedly; see ll. , , , . . we find _ful demure_ at the end of a. l. . , . _my doughter_; this assumes that the author was a female; so in ll. , ; and in a. l. throughout. . referring to l. ; so l. refers to l. ; l. , to l. . . _some maner way_, some kind of way; cf. _what maner way_, a. l. . . refers to ll. , . with l. , cf. c. t., a . . speght prints _bowes_ for _boughes_; but the meaning is certain, as the reference is to ll. - . bows are not made of laurel; yet dryden fell into the trap, and actually wrote as follows:-- 'who bear the bows were knights in arthur's reign; twelve they, and twelve the peers of charlemagne; for bows the strength of brawny arms imply, emblems of valour and of victory.' this is probably the only instance, even in poetry, of knights being armed with bows and arrows. . for the knights of arthur's round table, see malory's morte arthure. . _douseperes_; _les douze pers_, the twelve peers of charlemagne, including roland, oliver, ogier the dane, otuel, ferumbras, the traitor ganelon, and others. the names vary. . _in hir tyme_, formerly, in their day; shewing that the institution of the knights of the garter on april , , by edward iii, was anything but a recent event. . i. e. 'witness _him_ of rome, who was the founder of knighthood.' alluding to julius cæsar, to whom was decreed by the senate the right of wearing a laurel-crown; dryden mentions him by name. . cf. '_de mieulx en mieulx_'; temple of glas, . - . apparently imitated from the temple of glas, - . . cf. 'we _thanked_ her _in our most humble wyse_'; a. l. . . _male-bouche_, slander; borrowed from the rom. de la rose. see note above, to viii. . . cf. 'to _put_ it _in wryting_'; a. l. ; 'she _put_ it _in wryting_'; a. l. . . i. e. in the hope that it will be patronised. . cf. 'as for this _book_'; a. l. (last stanza). . 'how darest thou thrust thyself among the throng?' i.e. enter into contest. cf. 'in suych materys to _putte mysylff in prees_'; lydgate, secrees of philosophers, ed. steele, l. . § xxi. the assembly of ladies. for numerous references to this poem, see notes to the preceding poem. though apparently written by the authoress of the flower and the leaf, it is of later date, and much less use is made of the final e. that the author was a woman, is asserted in ll. , , , , , - , , , . . _the mase_. they amused themselves by trying to find a way into a maze, similar to that at hampton court. cf. l. . . ll. - are introductory. the story of the dream now begins, but is likewise preceded by an introduction, down to l. . . the word _went_ is repeated; the second time, it is an error for _wend_, weened. 'some went (really) inwards, and imagined that they had gone outwards.' which shews that the maze was well constructed. so, in l. , those who thought they were far behind, found themselves as far forward as the best of them. . that is, they cheated the deviser of the maze, by stepping over the rail put to strengthen the hedge. that was because they lost their temper. . the authoress got ahead of the rest; although sorely tired, she had gained a great advantage, and found the last narrow passage which led straight to the arbour in the centre. this was provided with benches (doubtless of turf, flower and leaf, l. ) and well enclosed, having stone walls and a paved floor with a fountain in the middle of it. . there were stairs leading downwards, with a 'turning-wheel.' i do not think that turning-wheel here means a turn-stile, or what was formerly called a turn-pike. it simply means that the stair-case was of spiral form. jamieson tells us that, in lowland scotch, the term _turn-pike_ was applied ( ) to the winding stair of a castle, and ( ) to any set of stairs of spiral form; and quotes from arnot to shew that a spiral stair-case was called a _turnpike stair_, whereas a straight one was called a _scale stair_. the pot of marjoram may have been placed on a support rising from the newel. it may be noted that arbours, which varied greatly in size and construction, were often set upon a small 'mount' or mound; in which case it would be easy to make a small spiral stair-case in the centre. in the present case, it could hardly have been very large, as it occupied a space in the centre of a maze. for further illustration, see a history of gardening in england, by the hon. alicia amherst, pp. , , , , , . . 'and how they (the daisies) were accompanied with other flowers besides, viz. forget-me-nots and remember-mes; and the poor pansies were not ousted from the place.' . _ne-m'oublie-mies_; from o.f. _ne m'oublie-mie_, a forget-me-not. littré, s.v. _ne m'oubliez pas_, quotes, from charles d'orléans, 'des fleurs de _ne m'oubliez mie_'; and again, from a later source, 'un diamant taillé en fleur de _ne m'oblie mie_.' the recovery of this true reading (by the help of ms. a.) is very interesting; as all the editions, who follow thynne, are hopelessly wrong. thynne, misreading the word, printed _ne momblysnesse_; whence arose the following extraordinary entry in bailey's dictionary:--'_momblishness_, talk, muttering; old word.' this ghost-word is carefully preserved in the century dictionary in the form:--'_momblishness_, muttering talk; bailey ( ).' _sovenez_ doubtless corresponds to the name _remember-me_, given in yorkshire and scotland to the _veronica chamædrys_, more commonly called the germander speedwell, and in some counties forget-me-not. but we should rather, in this passage, take forget-me-not (above) to refer, as is most usual, to the _myosotis_; as littré also explains it. here thynne was once more at a loss, and printed the word as _souenesse_, which was 'improved' by stowe into _sonenesse_. hence another ghost-word, recorded by bailey in the entry:--'_sonenesse_, noise.' cf. l. . . _pensees_, pansies; alluding, of course, to the _viola tricolor_. the spelling is correct, as it represents the o.f. _pensee_, thought; and it seems to have been named, as littré remarks, in a similar way to the forget-me-not, and (i may add) to the remember-me. . _stremes_, jets of water; there was a little fountain in the middle. . the authoress had to wait till the other ladies also arrived in the centre of the maze. cf. note to l. . . _sad_, settled, staid. _demure_, sober; lit. mature. . _blewe_, blue; which was the colour of constancy; see note to c. t., f (vol. v. p. ). for the lady's name was perseverance. it is convenient to enumerate here the officers who are mentioned. they are: perseveraunce, usher ( ); diligence ( , , ); countenance, porter ( , , ); discretion, purveyour ( ); acquaintance, herbergeour ( ); largesse, steward ( ); belchere, marshall ( ); remembrance, chamberlain ( ); avyseness, or advisedness, secretary ( ); and attemperance, chancellor ( ). the chief lady is loyalty ( ), dwelling in the mansion of pleasant regard ( ). . here _word_ means 'motto.' i here collect the french mottoes mentioned, viz. bien et loyalement ( ); tant que je puis ( ); a moi que je voy ( ); plus ne purroy ( ); a endurer ( ). afterwards, four ladies are introduced, with the mottoes sans que jamais ( ); une sanz chaungier ( ); oncques puis lever ( ); and entierment vostre ( ). these ladies afterwards present petitions, on which were written, respectively, the phrases cest sanz dire ( ); en dieu est ( ); soyez en sure ( ); and bien moneste ( ). the words, or mottoes, were embroidered on the sleeves of the ladies ( ). see lydgate's temple of glas, - . . they said a pater-noster for the benefit of st. julian, because he was the patron-saint of wayfarers. 'of this saynt julyen somme saye that this is he that pylgryms and wey-faryng men calle and requyre for good herberowe, by-cause our lord was lodgyd in his hows'; caxton's golden legend. the story occurs in the gesta romanorum, c. xviii., and in the aurea legenda. the following extract from an old translation of boccaccio, decam. day . nov. , explains the point of the allusion. 'nevertheless, at all times, when i am thus in journey, in the morning before i depart my chamber, i say a _pater-noster_ and an _ave-maria_ for the souls of the father and mother of st. julian; and after that, i pray god and st. julian to send me a good lodging at night'; &c. dunlop, in his hist. of fiction, discussing this novella, says: 'this saint was originally a knight, and, as was prophecied to him by a stag, he had the singular hap to kill his father and mother by mistake. as an atonement for his carelessness, he afterwards founded a sumptuous hospital for the accommodation of travellers, who, in return for their entertainment, were required to _repeat pater-nosters_ for the souls of his unfortunate parents.' . because she was to change her dress, and put on blue; see ll. - , - , . . the reference is to the legend of good women, which contains the story of phyllis, thisbe, and 'cleopataras.' cf. l. . . _hawes_, probably the same name as _havise_, which occurs in the old story of fulke fitzwarine. but it is remarkable that ms. a. has the reading:--'that other sydë was, how enclusene'; and this looks like an error for _melusene_, variant of _melusine_. this would agree with the next line, which means 'was untruly deceived in her bath.' the story of melusine is given in the romance of partenay. she was a fairy who married raymound, son of the earl of forest, on the understanding that he was never to watch what she did on a saturday. this he at last attempts to do, and discovers, through a hole in the door, that she was _in a bath_, and that her lower half was changed into a serpent. he tries to keep the knowledge of the secret, but one day, in a fit of anger, calls her a serpent. she reproaches him, and vanishes from his sight. see the romans of partenay, ed. skeat (e.e.t.s.). . from chaucer's poem of anelida and the false arcite; vol. i. p. ; for her complaint, see the same, p. . . _umple_ (ms. t. _vmpylle_), smooth gauze; from o.f. _omple_, smooth, used as an epithet of cloth, satin, or other stuff (godefroy). here evidently applied to something of a very thin texture, as gauze; see l. . . _stages_, steps. the chair or throne was set on a platform accessible by five steps, which were made of _cassidony_. cotgrave explains o.f. _cassidonie_ as meaning not only chalcedony, but also a kind of marble; and this latter sense may be here intended. . _her word_, her motto; _her_ must refer to the great lady (l. ) to whom the throne belonged. . _tapet_, a hanging cloth (halliwell); here a portion of the hangings that could be lifted up, to give entrance. . _after a sort_, of one kind, alike. _vent_, slit in front of a gown. '_vente_, the opening at the neck of the tunic or gown, as worn by both sexes during the norman period, and which was closed by a brooch'; gloss. to fairholt's costume in england. o.f. _fente_, a slit, cleft; from lat. _findere_. the collar and slit were alike bordered with ermine, covered with large pearls, and sprinkled with diamonds. cf. also: 'wyth armynes powdred bordred at the vent'; hawes, pastime of pleasure, ed. wright, p. . . _balays_, a balas-ruby; 'a delicate rose-red variety of the spinel ruby'; new. e. dict. _of entail_, lit. 'of cutting,' i.e. carefully cut; the usual phrase; see new e. dict. . _a world_, worth a world; cf. _a world_ (great quantity) of ladies; flower and the leaf, . - . alluding to the proverb: 'first come, first served'; cf. c. t., d , and the note (vol. v. p. ). . we find that the 'bills' are petitions made by the four ladies regarding their ill success in love-affairs. . i. e. yet not so much as she ought to have been, as she had all the trouble; _she_ refers to the lady herself. . _oncques_, ever; lat. _unquam_. 'i can ever rise' seems at first sight to be meant; but _ne_ must be understood; the true sense is, 'i can never rise'; i.e. never succeed. see the context, ll. - . . 'i trust in god'; see l. . . 'admonish well'; from o.f. _monester_, to admonish, warn. . here, and in l. , the speaker is the lady of the castle. in l. (as in l. ), the speaker appears to be the fourth lady; it is none too clear. . _i hate you_, i command you. _hate_ should rather be written _hote_; perhaps it was confused with the related pt. t. _hatte_, was called. the reference to saint james of compostella is noteworthy. . _it_, i.e. the bill, or petition; it takes the form of a complaint. - . _and_, if. _ye wolde_, i.e. _ye wolde seme_, (see l. ), ye would think so. _seem_ is still common in devonshire in the sense of think or suppose; usually pronounced _zim_. . _her_ refers to the lady of the castle; at least, it would appear so from l. . else, it refers to fortune. . _the water_, water thrown in her face by one of her companions, who had by this time entered the arbour. . a headless line; accent the first syllable. - . the flower and the leaf has a similar ending (ll. - ). § xxii. a goodly balade. obviously lydgate's. see the introduction. . _moder of norture_, model of good breeding. the poem is evidently addressed to a lady named margaret. . _flour_, daisy (for margaret); see ll. , . . _al be i_, although i am; common in lydgate. . _thing_, i.e. anything, everything, whatever thing. . _mieulx un_, one (is) better; evidently cited from a motto or device. the meaning seems to be: it is better to have but _one_ lover, and you have found one in a heart that will never shrink. in the temple of glas, , lydgate uses the motto _de mieulx en mieulx_. - . 'daisy (born) of light; you are called the daughter of the sun.' alluding to the name _day's eye_, which was also applied by lydgate to the sun; see note in vol. iii. p. (l. ). imitated from legend of good women, - . . 'when the day dawns, (repairing) to its natural place (in the east), then your father phoebus adorns the morrow.' . 'were it not for the comfort in the day-time, when (the sun's) clear eyes make the daisy unclose.' awkward and involved; cf. legend of good women, - , - . . _je vouldray_, i should like; purposely left incomplete. . _casuel_, uncertain; see new e. dict. - . _god saith_; implying that it is in the bible. i do not find the words; cf. prov. xxi. ; pet. ii. . . _cautels_, artifices, deceits; a word not used by chaucer, but found in lydgate; see new e. dict. . _quaketh my penne_, my pen quakes; an expression used once by chaucer, troil. iv. , but pounced upon by lydgate, who employs it repeatedly. see more than twenty examples in schick's note to the temple of glas, . cf. ix. . . read _roseth_, grows rosy, grows red, as opposed to _welkeneth_, withers, fades. we find the pp. _rosed_ twice in shakespeare; 'a maid yet _rosed over_,' henry v, v. . ; and 'thy _rosed_ lips'; titus and. ii. . . the emendation seems a safe one, for it restores the sense as well as the rime. _welkeneth_ should probably be _welketh_; i find no other example of the verb _welkenen_, though _welwen_ occurs in a like sense; and _welketh_ suits the rhythm. . _eft_, once again hot. these sudden transitions from cold to heat are common; see temple of glas, :--'for thoughe i brenne with _feruence_ and with hete.' . lydgate is always deploring his lack of eloquence; cf. notes to temple of glas, ed. schick, ll. , . . i can find no such word as _jouesse_, so i alter it to _jonesse_, i.e. youth. for the spelling _jonesce_ in the th century, see littré, s.v. _jeunesse_. the expression _have more yet_ implies that the phrase or motto _je serve jonesse_ is added as a postscript, and that there was some special point in it; but the application of it is now lost to us. cf. 'princes _of youthe_, and flour of gentilesse,' temple of glas, . § xxiii. go forth, king. this poem really consists of twelve precepts, intended to redress twelve abuses. the twelve abuses are given by the latin lines above, which should be compared throughout. the whole poem is thus easily understood. the accent is on the first syllable of the line in most of the lines. in l. , the word _lord_ stands alone in the first foot. the lines are somewhat unsteady, quite in lydgate's usual manner. in l. , _jug-e_ is probably dissyllabic. see further in the introduction. § xxiv. the court of love. this late piece abounds with imitations of lydgate, especially of his temple of glas; many of the resemblances are pointed out in schick's edition of that poem, which i refer to by the contraction 't. g.' . cf. 'with quaking hert[e] of myn inward drede'; t. g. . 'another feature characteristic of lydgate is his self-deprec[i]atory vein'; t. g., introd. p. cxl. we have here an instance of an imitation of it. . cf. 'save that he wol conveyen his matere'; c. t., e . . he refers to cicero's flowers of rhetoric. he may have found the name in chaucer, p. f. . but he probably took the whole idea from a line of lydgate's:--'of rethoriques _tullius_ fond the _floures_': minor poems, p. . . _borne_, burnish, adorn; it rimes (as here) with _sojorne_ in troil. i. . . _galfrid_, geoffrey de vinsauf; his 'craft' refers to his treatise on the art of poetry, entitled 'nova poetria'; see note to c. t., b (vol. v. p. ). [i once thought (see vol. i. p. ) that _galfrid_ here means chaucer himself, as he also is twice called _galfrid_ in lydgate's troy-book. but i find that dr. schick thinks otherwise, and the use of the word _craft_ is on his side. at the same time, this renders it impossible for chaucer to have written 'the court of love'; _his_ opinion of his namesake was the reverse of reverential.] with ll. - compare the opening lines of benedict burgh's poem in praise of lydgate, pr. at p. xxxi of steele's edition of lydgate's secrees of philosophers. . _calliope_; twice mentioned by chaucer; also by lydgate, t. g. . lydgate's troy-book opens with an invocation to mars, followed by one to calliope:--'helpe me also, o thou callyope'; and only four lines above there is a mention of 'helicon the welle' (see l. below). . _elicon_, mount helicon in boeotia, sacred to apollo and the muses; confused by chaucer and his followers with the fountain hippocrene; see note in vol. i. p. . hence lydgate's expression 'helicon the welle' in the last note and in t. g. , and the reference in the text to its _dropes_. _suger-dropes_; lydgate was fond of sugar; he has 'soote _sugred_ armonye,' minor poems, p. ; and '_sugrid_ melody,' ib., p. . also '_sugred_ eloquence'; xii. (p. ); with which cf. l. below. i have observed several other examples. . _melpomene_; the muse who presided over tragedy. . cf. 'this simpil tretis for to take _in gre_'; t. g. . 'taketh _at gre_ the rudness of my style'; lydgate, secrees of philosophers, . . _metriciens_, skilful in metre, poets; a word which has a remarkably late air about it. richardson gives an example of it from hall's chronicle. . compare the following, from t. g. - . 'i purpos here to maken and to write a litil tretise, and a processe make in pris of women, oonli for hir sake.' . _man_, servant, one who does her homage; cf. chaucer, c. t., i ; la belle dame, ; t. g. . . cf. 'so that here-after my ladi may it _loke_'; t. g. . . cf. 'ther was enclosed _rype and sad corage_'; c. t., e . , . here the mountain of cithæron, in boeotia, is confused with the island of cythera, sacred to venus, whence her name cytherea was derived. the mistake arose, of course, from the similarity of the names, and occurs (as said in vol. v. p. , note to a ), in the roman de la rose, where we find:-- 'citeron est une montaigne ... venus, qui les dames espire, fist là son principal manoir'; ll. - . hence chaucer makes the same confusion, but in a different way. chaucer preserves the right name of the mountain, in the form _citheroun_, which he rimes with _mencioun_ (a ) and with _adoun_ (a ); but here we have the form _citharee_, riming with _see_. for all this, the scribe corrects it to _citheron_ in l. , where he has no rime to deal with. . cf. 'the _winged_ god, mercurie'; c. t., a . . the ms. has _costes that it drewe_; bell alters this to _had to it drew_, under the impression that _drew_ is the pp. of _draw_! so again, in l. , he alters _saphir ind_, which is correct, to _saphir of inde_; and in general, alters the text at will without the least hint that he has done so. . _ind_, blue; as in the black knight, . . _baleis turkeis_ (ms. _bales turkes_). _baleis_ is a better spelling, answering to f. _balais_ in littré. it also occurs as _balai_ in o.f.; and the word was probably suggested by the mention of it in rom. de la rose, :--'que saphirs, rubis, ne _balai_.' hence also the mention of it in the king's quhair, st. , which see; and in the assembly of ladies, . _turkeis_ is the a. f. equivalent of o.f. _turkois_, i.e. turkish, as in c. t., a , on which see the note (vol. v. p. ). . _shene_, a misspelling of _shine_, intimating that the author has confused the adj. _shene_ with the verb; or rather, that the poem was written at a time when the word _shine_ could be used as riming to _been_; since we find similar examples in lines , . so also we find _pretily_ riming with _be_ in the flower and the leaf, . the pt. t. _shoon_ occurs in l. . . cf. 'as doon the sterres in the frosty night'; c. t., a . and again: '_bryght as sterrys in_ the _wyntyr_ nyght'; lydgate, compleint following t. g., l. . . cf. compl. of mars, - , - ; c. t., a (and note); and t. g. - . . cf. 'long as _a mast_,' &c.; c. t., a . . cf. troil. iii. - : '_in hevene and helle_,' &c.; from boccaccio; see note (vol. ii. p. ). . _alceste_; evidently borrowed from ch., legend of good women, , - , ; cf. t. g. - . _the quenes flour alceste_ = the flower of queen alcestis; a common idiom; see note to c. t., f (vol. v. p. ). . _admete_, admetus; see troil. i. , and the note; t. g. . . _ninetene_; copied from the legend of good women, ; just as the next line is from the same, - . this is the more remarkable, because chaucer never finished the poem, but mentions ten ladies only, in nine legends. cf. 'the book of _the nynetene ladies_'; c. t., i . hawes also refers to chaucer's 'tragidyes ... of the xix. ladyes'; pastime of pleasure, ed. wright, p. . . 'so fair was noon in alle arras'; r. r. . . _of esier availe_, of less value; see _avail_ in the new e. dict. . _saunz faile_; thrice in ch.; hf. , ; c. t., b . . _helisee_, elysium; '_the feld_ ... that hight _elysos_'; troil. iv. . . _saintes_, saints, martyrs for love; cf. v. , above (p. ), and the note. cf. t. g. . . 'the king had danger standing near him, and the queen had disdain, who were chief of the council, to treat of affairs of state'; bell. . cf. t. g. , and the note, shewing how common gold hair is in lydgate. , . 'bihinde _her bak, a yerde long_'; c. t., a . . _in mewet_, in an inaudible voice, to myself; like mod. f. _à la muette_ (littré). . _non erst_; false grammar for _non er_, no sooner; 'no soonest' is nonsense. we find, however, the phrases _not erst_ and _never erst_ elsewhere; see new e. dict., s.v. _erst_, § b. . . this is the earliest quotation given in the new e. dict., s.v. _assummon_; and the next is from the poet daniel. . chaucer has the compound _for-pampred_; former age, . i read _jolif_, joyful, to make sense; the ms. has the absurd word _ioylof_ (_sic_); and stowe has _ialous_, jealous, which is quite out of place here. . 'an allusion to the monkish story of the man who brought up a youth ignorant of women, and who, when he first saw them, told him they were geese. the story is in the _promptuarium exemplorum_. it was adopted by boccaccio, from whom it was taken by lafontaine, liv. iii. conte . see _latin stories_, edited by mr. [t.] wright.'--bell. . from c. t., b : '_on many a_ sory _meel_ now _may she bayte_.' . cf. '_comfort is noon_'; chaucer's a b c, . . _how_, however. cf. 'that _boghten love_ so _dere_'; legend of good women, . . see the book of the duchess, - , where the painted glass windows contain subjects from the romance of the rose and others. the story of dido is common enough; but the reference to chaucer's anelida and the false arcite, is remarkable, especially as it occurs also in xxi. above (p. ). 'the turtel trewe' is from the parl. foules, . see the parallel passage in t. g. - , where lydgate's _first_ example is that of _dido_, while at the same time he mentions palamon, emilie, and canacee, all from chaucer. . _blew_, blue, the colour of constancy; see l. . . 'and why that ye ben clothed thus _in blak_?' c. t., a . . _grene_ only gives an assonance with _here_, not a rime. green was the colour of inconstancy, and was sometimes used _for despyt_, to use chaucer's phrase; see note to c. t., f (vol. v. p. ). white may refer to the white friars or carmelites, and russet to the hermits; cf. p. plowman, c. prol. , c. xi. . . _an ho_, a proclamation commanding silence; see c. t., . quite distinct from _hue_ (and cry), with which bell confuses it. a hue and cry was only raised against fleeing criminals. . clearly suggested by the god of love's stern question in the legend of good women, :--'what dostow heer so nigh myn owne flour, so boldely?' at the same time the phrase _fer y-stope in yeres_ is from chaucer's _somdel stape in age_, c. t., b , on which see the note (vol. v. p. ). see the next note. . similarly the god of love pardoned chaucer (l. g. w. ), but upon a condition (ib. ). . _serven_, false grammar for _serve_. . here follow the twenty statutes; ll. - . they are evidently expanded from the similar set of injunctions given by venus to the knight in the temple of glas, ll. - ; as clearly shewn by schick in his introduction, p. cxxxi. the similarity extends to the first, second, third, fifth, sixth, seventh, ninth, tenth, twelfth, fourteenth and eighteenth statutes, which resemble passages found in the temple of glas, ll. - , or elsewhere in the same poem. it is also possible that the author, or lydgate, or both of them, kept an eye upon ovid's art of love. see also rom. rose (eng. version), - , which is much to the point. . this is also the first injunction in t. g. - , and is immediately followed by the second, which enjoins _secrecy_. the reader should compare the passages for himself. . ms. _synk and flete_; which must of course be corrected to 'sink _or_ flete,' as in anelida, ; c. t., a . . '_withoute chaunge_ in parti or in al'; t. g. . . the ms. has _brynde_, and stowe has _brinde_; so i let the reading stand. morris has _blynde_, and bell _blind_; neither of them has a note as to the change made. perhaps _brind_ = _brend_ = burnt, in the sense of 'inflamed by passion'; or it may be an error for _brim_ = _breme_, furious, applied especially to the desire of the boar for the sow. the sense intended is clear enough; we should now write 'base.' - . from c. t., a - :-- 'and on thyn [_venus'_] _auter_, wher i ryde or go, i wol don sacrifice, and _fyres bete_.' . _passe forby_, to pass by, i.e. to get out of his way; cf. c. t., b , c . _an ese_, a relief, a way of escape. there is no difficulty, but all the editions have altered it to _passe, for thereby_, which will not scan. . _daungerous_, grudging, reluctant; see c. t., d . . _of a sight_, of what one may see. _squeymous_ (ms. _squymouse_, stowe _squmous_), squeamish, particular; see note to c. t., a (vol. v. p. ). it is added that when the lady, on her part, was cruel, it was the lover's duty to toss about in bed and weep; cf. t. g. :--'the longe nyght _walowing_ to and fro.' 'to _walwe and wepe_'; troil. i. . and see rom. rose (eng. version), - . . cf. 'him to complein, that he walk [_read_ welk = walked] so sole'; t. g. . and cf. book duch. ; black knight, ; rom. rose, - , - . . cf. 'as though he roughte nought of life ne deth'; t. g. - . . 'abide awhile,' t. g. ; '_patiently_ t'endure'; t. g. . . _helden_, false grammar for _held_. the metre shews that it was intentional. . 'fulli _to obeye_,' t. g. ; cf. - . - . cf. t. g. - ; especially 'and when i trespas, goodli me correcte'; and 'neuyr yow offende.' and ovid, art. amat. lib. ii. - . . _yern_, earn; so _yearne_ in spenser, f. q. vi. . ; a.s. _geearnian_. - . 'of _grace and pitè_, and nought of rightwisnes'; t. g. . . _a-croke_ (ms. _a croke_), awry; see _acrook_ in the new e. dict. - . in l. , the ms. has _shon_ (shun) distinctly; yet morris prints _shoue_, and stowe _showe_, destroying the sense. all have _knowe_ in l. , but it should rather be _con_, which gives a perfect rime; for _con_ represents a.s. _cunnan_, to know, and is frequently spelt _cun_; see _con_ in the new e. dict. this statute refers to 'the comfort of sweet-looking'; see rom. rose, - ; gower, c. a., iii. - . . see t. g. - , . . 'yeve hir giftes, and get hir grace'; rom. rose, . 'auro conciliatur amor'; ovid, art. amat. lib. ii. . . cf. rom. rose, - . . 'and for no tales thin herte not remue'; t. g. . cf. c. t., a - ; f - ; and xii. - above (p. ). . 'for love ne wol nat countrepleted be'; legend of good women, . 'quisquis erit cui favet illa, fave'; ovid, art. amat. lib. i. . . '_whyt_ was this _crowe_'; c. t., h ; cf. note to c. t., d . . compare the merchant's tale; c. t., e . . cf. t. g. - : 'all trwe louers to relese of her payne,' &c. . 'ai fressh and wel besein'; t. g. . cf. rom. rose, - . 'munditiae placeant,' &c.; ovid, art. amat. lib. i. . . 'who loveth trewe hath no fatnesse'; rom. rose, ; 'arguat et macies animum'; ovid, art. amat. lib. i. . - . cf. rom. rose, - , - . in particular, ll. - seem to be actually copied from rom. rose, - : 'or of hir _chere that to thee made thy lady dere_.' this raises the suspicion that the court of love was written after . . _thou seen_ would be in latin _tu videatis_; another example of false grammar. . _let been_, to let (them) be, to leave off. . _kepten been_ (ms. _bene_); so in all the copies; but _kepten_ is the pt. t. plural, as if we should say in latin _seruauerunt sunt_. unless, indeed, the _-en_ is meant for the pp. suffix of a strong verb, as if we should make a latin form _seruatiti_. the scansion shews that this false grammar came from the author. . 'except god and the devil.' - . solomon and samson; the usual stock examples. but probably in this case borrowed from lydgate's balade, xiv. (p. ), which is certainly quoted thrice again below. . this line is made up from lydgate's balade, xiv. - , and ; so again l. resembles the same, l. . and lydgate merely versifies the medieval proverb: 'fallere,' &c.; see note to xiv. ; p. . . _of kind_, by nature; as in xiv. (p. ). . 'an housbond shal _nat been inquisitif_'; c. t., a . . _citherea_ is right; see l. ; ms. and stowe have _cithera_. . 'you that are provided already with a lady.'--bell. cf. l. . - . _eke_, _lyke_, a permissible rime, at a time when _e_ had gained the mod. e. sound. see note to l. above. . see t. g. - . with l. , cf. t. g. . . the reading _blisful_ is certain; it is from t. g. :--'o _blisful_ sterre, persant and ful of light.' the author uses _persant_ below, in l. . . see the second of the interpolated stanzas in t. g., p. , ll. , :-- 'withoute desert; wherefore that ye vouche to _ponysshe_ hem dewely for here male-bouche.' . _loves daunce_; see references in the glossary to vol. vi., s.v. _daunce_. . in t. g. , the lovers are only many a thousand; in the kingis quair, st. , they are 'mony a' million; here they are a thousand million. such is evolution. . '_redresse_ is elegantly put for _redresser_';--bell. then let the credit of it be lydgate's; cf. '_redresse_ of sorow, o citheria'; t. g. . . bell prints _yheried_, which is obviously right; but he does not say that both the ms. and stowe have _i hired_; see troil. ii. , iii. , . . _loves bond_; founded on boethius, lib. ii. met. , but doubtless taken from troil. iii. ; see note in vol. ii. p. . , . 'make him teschwe euere synne and vice'; t. g. . - . _celsitude_ and _pulcritude_ are words that savour of the revival of learning. such words are common in dunbar, who uses both of them. for _celsitude_, see dunbar, ed. small, p. , , and p. , ; for _pulcritude_, see the same, p. , ; p. , ; p. , . he even rimes them together; p. . hawes also uses _pulchritude_; pastime of pleasure, ed. wright, pp. , . . cf. '_comparisoun may noon y-maked be_'; legend of good women, . . _fere_, fire (not fear); as in troil. iii. . . _beseech_, to beseech; note the anachronism in using the french infin. _void-en_ with a suffix, and the eng. _beseech_ with none at all. . _ure_, destiny; from o.f. _eur_, lat. _augurium_. a word that first appeared in northern english; it occurs at least eight times in barbour's bruce. and in the kingis quair, st. , we have the whole phrase--'my fortúne and ure.' it is also used by lydgate; see viii. , , (pp. , , ). . an exact repetition of l. above. . here, for a wonder, is an example of the final _e_; the author took the whole phrase 'in thilk-ë place' from some previous author; cf. 'in thilke places' (_sic_); rom. rose, (thynne). _sign_, assign. . 'bi god and be my trouthe'; t. g. . . '_and holden werre_ alwey with chastitee'; c. t., a . . _i kepen_; false grammar; equivalent to lat. _ego curamus_. . _yove_, gave; but in l. the form is _gave_. i suspect that in l. , _gave_ should be _gan_, and that _image_ (for _images_) is to be taken as a genitive case; then the sense is--'and i began anon to ponder and weigh in my heart her image's fresh beauty.' . the idea is due to chaucer's compleynt to pity; cf. l. . . cf. 'him deyneth nat to _wreke him on a flye_'; legend of good women, . . _eke him_, him also; but perhaps read _ete him_. . cf. 'and tendre herte'; c. t., a . . _springen_; false grammar, as it is a plural form. . _endry_, suffer, endure; so again in l. . this ridiculous hybrid is rightly excluded from the new e. dict., which gives, however, several similar formations. it was coined by prefixing the f. prefix _en-_, with an intensive force, to m.e. _drien_, variant of _dreogen_, to endure (a.s. _dr[=e]ogan_), lowl. sc. _dree_. no other author uses it. . _spede_, succeed; stowe's alteration to _speke_ is unnecessary. . 'how are you the nearer for loving,' &c. . _fayn_, put for _feyn_, i.e. feign, tell an untruth. . _heth_, heath. here, and in l. , the author refers to two occasions when he was in great danger of falling in love; but he does not go into details. . here we must read _ee_ (eye) for the rime; in other cases it appears as _eye_, _ye_, _y_, riming with words in _-y_. this points to a somewhat late date; see note to l. above. as for _stremes_, it is lydgate's word for glances of the eye; see t. g. , . and lydgate had it from chaucer, who mostly uses it of sunbeams, but twice applies it to the beams from the eyes of criseyde; troil. i. , iii. . . _flawe_, generally explained as representing lat. _flauus_, yellowish, or the o.f. _flave_, with the same sense. her hair was gold, so her eyebrows may have been of a similar colour. i suspect that _flawe_ was a northern form; cf. _braw_, as a northern variant of _brave_. . _mene disseverance_, a moderate distance; evidently meant with reference to criseyde, whose one demerit was that her eye-brows joined each other; troil. v. . . _milk-whyt path_, the galaxy, or milky way; but surely this is quite a unique application of it, viz. to the prominent ridge of rosial's nose. . _smaragde_, emerald. the eyes of beatrice are called _smeraldi_; dante, purg. xxxi. . juliet's nurse said that an eagle's eye was not so green as that of paris; romeo, iii. . . eyes in chaucer are usually 'as gray as glas'; the o.f. _vair_, an epithet for eyes, meant grayish-blue. . _basse_, kiss, buss; see _bass_ in the new e. dict. _ben_ is yet another instance of a false concord; read _be_, as _basse_ is singular. see next note. . cornelius maximianus gallus, a poet of the sixth century, wrote six elegies which have come down to us. the quotation referred to occurs in the first elegy (ll. - ), which is also quoted by chaucer; see note to c. t., c (vol. v. p. ). the lines are:-- 'flammea dilexi, modicumque tumentia labra, quae mihi gustanti basia plena darent.' hence the epithet _flaming_ in l. . . _bend_, a band, sash; see new e. dict., s.v. _bend_ ( ), sb., . a. . 'with hair in tresses'; like criseyde's; see troil. v. . . cf. the assembly of ladies, - (p. ):-- '_aboute her nekke_ a sort of faire _rubyes_ in whyte _floures_ of right fyne enamayl.' see also the kingis quair, st. . - . see my note to ch. minor poems, xxi. (vol. i. p. ). . _calixto_, callisto; called _calixte_ in parl. foules, . the story is in ovid, met. ii. , _alcmenia_, alcmene, mother of hercules; see ovid, met. ix. ; cf. troil. iii. ; t. g. . . _europa_, the story is in ovid, met. ii. . see legend of good women, , and the note; t. g. . . _dane_, danae, mother of perseus; see ovid, met. iv. . in chaucer, c. t., a , _dane_ means daphne. _antiopa_, mother of amphion and zethus; it may be noted that jupiter's intrigues with europa, antiopa, alcmene, and danae, are all mentioned together in ovid, met. vi. - . it follows that our author had read ovid. . '_there is no lak, saue_ onli of pitè'; t. g. . . the word _the_ was probably written like _ye_, giving, apparently, the reading _ye ye_; then one of these was dropped. the long passage in ll. - may be compared with the pleadings of the lover in la belle dame sans merci (p. , above); with t. g. - ; and with the kingis quair, st. . note the expression 'of beaute rote,' t. g. ; and '_princes_ of youthe,' t. g. (two lines above); see l. . . _persant_, piercing; common in lydgate; t. g. , , ; black knight, , , , . cf. 'and _with_ the _stremes of your percyng_ light'; kingis quair, . - . cf. t. g. - ; kingis quair, st. , l. . . 'of verrey routhe upon my peynes rewe'; t. g. . . 'to love him best ne shal i _never repente_'; the compleynt of venus, , , . see note to l. . - . referring to ch. troilus, and legend of good women, . 'to ben as trewe as was antonyus to cleopatre'; t. g. . . _thinkes_; observe this northern form. . 'and therfore, certes, _to myn ending-day_'; the compleynt of venus, . see note to l. . . _expert_, experienced; 'expert in love,' troil. ii. . . 'with al my hert i thanke yow _of youre profre_'; t. g. . . read _i_; this the scribe must have mistaken for the contraction for 'and.' . 'and i beseech you not to be disdainful.' . _seen my wil_, to see what i wish; but surely _wil_ is an error for _bill_, petition; see l. . then _rede_ means 'read it.' . _com of_, be quick; see troil. ii. , , ; and the numerous examples in schick's note to t. g. . . stowe, like the ms., ends the line with _why_. bell supplied _makes thou straunge_. . _cambrige_; this form is not found till after . chaucer has _cant-e-brigg-e_ (c. t., a ) in four syllables, which appears as _cambrugge_ in the late lansdowne ms., after . see skeat, a student's pastime, pp. - . . _and have_, i.e. and have loved. on this construction, see schick's note to t. g. . - . _i ... doon_; more false grammar; equivalent to lat. _ego faciamus_. . 'and, whan i trespace, goodli _me correcte_'; t. g. . - . compare the answers of the lady in la belle dame sans merci (p. , &c.). - . cf. parl. foules, - ; compl. to his lady, - . . _dwale_, an opiate, a sleeping-draught; made from the _dwale_ or 'deadly nightshade' (_atropa belladonna_). it occurs once in chaucer; c. t., a . see my note to p. plowman, c. xxiii. . . _y-wis afrayed_, (being) certainly frightened. the use of _y-wis_ in such a position is most unusual. - . 'right as the fressh[e] rodi rose nwe of hir coloure to wexin she bigan'; t. g. - . . something is lost here. there is no gap in the ms.; but there was probably one in the ms. from which it was copied. i think six stanzas are lost; see the introduction. - . 'and their fellow-furtherer,' i.e. fellow-helper. . _dred_ is one of the personifications from the roman de la rose; see rom. rose, ; so in t. g. . . 'gall under honey'; see l. above. cf. t. g. . . 'lay aside your confidence (courage), for all her white (flattering) words'; cf. troil. iii. . . _thow wot_, false grammar for _thou wost_. . _the ton_ = _thet on_, the one; _the toder_ = _thet oder_, the other. _oder_ is a remarkable form; see halliwell. so also _brodur_, in le bon florence of rome, ed. ritson, . - . 'hir kind is fret with doublenesse'; xiii. (p. ). . 'so i cast about to get rid of despair's company'; hence _taken_, in l. , is in the infin. mood. . _bay-window_; cf. assembly of ladies, . the earliest known quotation for _bay-window_ is dated , in a prosaic document. . 'as any ravenes _fether_ it shoon _for-blak_'; spoken of hair; c. t., a . . 'ther needeth non _auctoritee allegge_'; c. t., a . . cf. troil. ii. - . . _were_, wear; altered by bell to _ware_, which is a form of the past tense. . _she_ seems to be spoken casually of some woman in the company; and _prety man_, in l. , is used in a similar way. _goth on patens_, walks in pattens. a very early example of the word _paten_. it occurs in palsgrave ( ). _fete_, neat, smart; used by lydgate; see _feat_ in the new e. dict. . here the author comes back again to the temple of glas, - , which see; and cf. the kingis quair, stanzas - . . _black_, dominican friars; _white_, carmelites; _gray_, franciscans. . from t. g. - ; for the nuns, see t. g. - . . '_in wide_ copis _perfeccion to feine_'; t. g. . see l. . . 'that _on hir freendis al the_ wite they leide'; t. g. . . '_in wide copis_ perfeccion to feine'; t. g. . . '_ther thou were weel_, fro thennes artow weyved'; c. t., b . . cf. 'with sobbing teris, and with ful pitous soune'; t. g. . . cf. 'and other eke, that for _pouertè_'; t. g. . . _prang_, pang (ms. _prange_; and so in stowe); altered to _pang_ by bell and morris. '_pronge_, erumpna' [aerumna]; prompt. parv. '_throwe_ [throe], _womannys pronge_, erumpna'; the same. '_prange_, oppression, or constraint'; hexham's dutch dict. cf. gothic: 'in allamma _ana-pragganai_,' we were troubled on every side, cor. vii. ; where _gg_ is written for _ng_, as in greek. the mod. e. _pang_ seems to have been made out of it, perhaps by confusion with _pank_, to pant. , . 'and pitousli _on god and kynde pleyne_'; t. g. . but the context requires the reading _god of kind_, i.e. god of nature. in l. , _leften_ must be meant for a pp.; if so, it is erroneously formed, just like _kepten_ above; see note to l. . . _werdes_, fates; obviously the right reading; yet the ms., stowe, and morris have _wordes_, and bell alters the line. the confusion between _e_ and _o_ at this time is endless. see _werdes_, _wierdes_ in the gloss. to chaucer. . _he_, another of the company; cf. _she_ in l. . both morris and bell alter the text. bell reminds us that the character here described is that of shakespeare's benedict. but it is obviously copied from troilus! see troil. i. - . . the word _post_ is from troil. i. : 'that thou shalt be the beste _post_, i leve, of al his lay.' . _shamefastness_, bashfulness; borrowed from _honte_ in the rom. de la rose, ; called _shame_ in the e. version, . hence the reference to _roses_ in l. , though it comes in naturally enough. . _were not she_, if it had not been for her. . _returnith_, turns them back again; used transitively. . 'when bashfulness is dead, despair will be heir' (will succeed in her place). too bold lovers would be dismissed. . _avaunter_, boaster; as in troil. iii. - . the line sounds like an echo of 'have at thee, jason! now thyn horn is blowe!' legend of good women, . . _wowe_, woo; evidently the right reading; so in morris. cf. the letter of cupid, v. - (p. ). . _statut_, i.e. the sixteenth statute (l. ). . '_avauntour_ and _a lyere_, al is on'; troil. iii. . . _sojoure_, sojourn, dwell, used quite wrongly; for o.f. _sojur_ (originally _sojorn_) is a sb. only, like mod. f. _séjour_. the o.f. verb was _sojorner_, _sojourner_, whence m.e. _sojornen_, _sojournen_, correctly used by chaucer. the sb. _sojour_ occurs in rom. rose, , . the mistake is so bad that even the scribe has here written _soiorne_; but, unluckily, this destroys the rime. . 'envy is admirably represented as rocking himself to and fro with vexation, as he sits, dark, in a corner.'--bell. for all this, i suspect the right word is _rouketh_, i.e. cowers, as in c. t., a . _rokken_ is properly transitive, as in c. t., a . . for the description of envy, see rom. rose, . but the author (in l. ) refers us to ovid, met. ii. - , q. v. . _methamorphosose_; this terrible word is meant for _metamorphoseos_, the form used by chaucer, c. t., b . but the true ending is _-e[=o]n_, gen. pl. the scribe has altered the suffix to _-ees_, thus carelessly destroying the rime. . _prevy thought_ is taken from _doux-pensers_ in the rom. de la rose, , called _swete-thought_ in the e. version, ; see the passage. . cf. 'hir person he shal afore him sette'; r. r. . . cf. 'this comfort wol i that thou take'; r. r. . . cf. 'awey his anger for to dryve'; r. r. . . schick refers us, for this fiction, to the rom. rose, - , where cupid has two sets of arrows, one set of _gold_, and the other set _black_. gower, conf. amantis (ed. pauli, i. ), says that cupid shot phoebus with a dart of _gold_, but daphne with a dart of _lead_. in the kingis quair, stanzas - , cupid has _three_ arrows, one of _gold_, one of _silver_, and one of _steel_. but the fact is, that our author, like gower, simply followed ovid, met. i. - . let dryden explain it:-- 'one shaft is pointed with refulgent gold to bribe the love, and make the lover bold; one blunt, and tipped with lead, whose base allay provokes disdain, and drives desire away.' . there is here a gap in the story. the speaker is rosial, and she is addressing philogenet, expressing herself favourably. - . _hight_, promised. _had_, would have. . _she_, i.e. pity, as in l. . . ms. _tender reich_; stowe, _tenderiche_; which must be wrong; read _tender reuth_. confusion between _ch_ and _th_ is common. _where i found_, where i (formerly) found much lack. . for pity's golden shrine, see l. . . this notion of making the birds sing matins and lauds is hinted at in the cuckoo and nightingale--'that they begonne of may _to don hir houres_'; l. . it is obviously varied from chaucer's parl. foules, where all the birds sing a roundel before departing. next, we find the idea expanded by lydgate, in the poem called devotions of the fowls; minor poems, ed. halliwell, p. ; the singers are the popinjay, the pelican, the nightingale, the lark, and the dove. all these reappear here, except the pelican. a chorus of birds, including the mavis, merle, lark, and nightingale, is introduced at the close of dunbar's thistle and rose. the present passage was probably suggested by lydgate's poem, but is conceived in a lighter vein. the latin quotations are easily followed by comparing them with the prymer, or lay folks' prayer-book, ed. littlehales (e. e. t. s.). they all appear in this 'common medieval prayer-book'; and, in particular, in the matins and lauds of the hours of the blessed virgin mary. the matins end at l. . the matins contain:--the opening, the _venite_, a hymn, three psalms, an antiphon, versicles and responses, three lessons (each with versicles and responses), and the _te deum_. the lauds contain:--the opening, eight psalms (the _benedicite_ considered as one), antiphon, chapter, hymn, the _benedictus_; &c. i point out the correspondences below. . observe that the nightingale sings _in a hawthorn_ in the cuckoo and nightingale, (p. ). . _domine, labia mea aperies_, lord, open thou my lips; 'the opening' of matins. . _bewrye_, a variant of _bewreye_, to bewray; used by dunbar. . _venite, exultemus_, ps. xcv (vulgate, xciv); still in use. . 'the unhappy chorister who comes late skulks in behind the desks and stalls.'--bell. . _domine, dominus noster_, ps. viii. the 'first psalm.' . _celi enarrant_, ps. xix (vulgate, xviii). the 'second psalm.' . _domini est terra_, ps. xxiv (vulgate, xxiii). the 'third psalm.' _this laten intent_, this latin signifies; _intent_ is the contracted form of _intendeth_; by analogy with _went_ for _wendeth_. . a queer reminiscence of troil. iii. :--'there was no more to _skippen nor to_ traunce.' . _jube, domine, benedicere_, 'lord, comaunde us to blesse'; versicle preceding the first lesson; which explains l. . . cf. 'legende of martres'; letter of cupid, (p. ); and the note. . here follows the second lesson. the _lectorn_ is the mod. e. lectern, which supports the book from which the lessons are read. . 'the glad month of us who sing.' cf. 'lepten _on the spray_'; cuckoo and nightingale, (p. ). . here follows the third lesson, read by the dove. . this looks like an allusion to the endless joke upon cuckolds, who are said, in our dramatists, to 'wear the horn'; which the offender is said 'to give.' if so, it is surely a very early allusion. here _give an horn_ = to scorn, mock. . _tu autem, domine, miserere nobis_, 'thou, lord, have merci of us,' said at the conclusion of each lesson; to which all responded _deo gratias_, 'thanke we god!' see the prymer, p. . . _te deum amoris_; substituted for _te deum laudamus_, which is still in use; which concludes the matins. . _tuball_, who was supposed to have been 'the first musician.' as to this error, see note in vol. i. p. (l. ). . _dominus regnavit_, ps. xciii (vulgate, xcii); the 'first psalm' at lauds. . _jubilate deo_, ps. c (vulgate, xcix); the 'second psalm.' the third and fourth psalms are not mentioned. . _benedicite, omnia opera_; still in use in our morning service; counted as the 'fifth psalm.' . _laudate dominum_, ps. cxlviii; the 'sixth psalm.' the seventh and eighth are passed over. . _o admirabile_; the anthem. the e. version is:--'o thou wonderful chaunge! the makere of mankynde, takynge a bodi with a soule of a maide vouchide sauf be bore [_born_]; and so, forth-goynge man, with-outen seed, yaf to us his godhede'; prymer, p. . the 'chapter' and hymn are omitted. . _benedictus dominus deus israel_; still in use in our morning service. this is the last extract from 'the hours.' . 'she gadereth floures, _party_ whyte and rede to make a sotil _garland_'; c. t., a . . this is exactly like 'the battle of the flowers,' as seen in italy. . _the gold_, the marigold; see c. t., a . . _trew-love_; a name for herb paris (_paris quadrifolia_). but as the 'true-love' is described as being _plited_, i.e. folded, it must rather be supposed to mean a true lover's knot or love-knot, which was simply a bow of ribbon given as a token of affection, and frequently worn by the lover afterwards. the bestowal of this token nearly made an end of him. § xxv. virelai. not a true virelay, as the ending _-ing_ does not reappear in the second stanza; for a correct example, see note to anelida and arcite, (vol. i. p. ). but it is of the nature of a virelay, inasmuch as the rime _-ate_, which concludes the first stanza, reappears in the second; and similarly, the ending _-ure_, which concludes the second stanza, reappears in the third; and so on, with the rime-endings _-ain_ and _-aunce_. compare the poem by lord rivers, in the same metre, alluded to in vol. i. p. . . _ure_, destiny; as above, sect. xxiv. (and note, p. ). . the pronunciation of _ende_ as _ind_ is not uncommon in east anglia, and may have been intended. § xxvi. prosperity. from john walton's translation of boethius, a.d. . see the introduction. § xxvii. leaulte vault richesse. from the same ms. as the last. . _don but lent_, lit. 'done but lent,' i.e. merely lent (you). for this idiom, see note to ch. c. t., b (vol. v. p. ). § xxviii. sayings. . cf. shak. king lear, iii. . ; see the introduction. § xxix. balade. this balade, printed by stowe, seems like a poor imitation of the style of lydgate. * * * * * glossarial index. references to i. (the testament of love) are to the book, chapter, and line; thus 'i. ii. . ' = testament of love, bk. ii. ch. . l. . references containing '_pr._' refer to the prologue to the same. in all other cases, the references are to the piece and to the line: thus 'v. ' = letter of cupid, l. . a, _v._ have, i. i. . ; _ger._ i. i. . . a deblys, (_perhaps_) to the devil, as if devoted to the devil, i. ii. . . see the note. a dewe, (_perhaps for_ à dieu), i. ii. . . see the note. a this halfe, on this side, below, i. i. . . a. b. c., _s._ alphabet, i. ii. . . abacke, _adv._ backward, iii. ; abakke, viii. . abbeys, _s. pl._ abbeys, xxiv. . abeisen, _v._ (_for_ abasen), abase, put down, reprove, xxiv. . abit, _pr. s._ abides, iv. ; xiii. . able, _imp. s._ enable, vii. ; abled, _pp._ i. ii. . ; fitted, i. ii. . . abode, _ pt. s._ didst abide, i. ii. . ; abood, _pt. s._ remained, i. i. . . abouten, _adv._ all about, all round, i. ii. . . abregge, _ger._ to abridge, shorten, xix. . abreyde, _ger._ to start up, awake, viii. ; abraid, _pt. s._ started, went suddenly, xvii. ; abrayde, awoke, viii. . abydinge, _s._ waiting, delay, i. i. . . abye, _v._ pay for (it), ii. ; pay for, ii. . abyme, _s._ the abyss, x. . a-cale, _pp. as adj._ frozen, afflicted with the cold, ii. . accept, _pp._ accepted (as), i. ii. . ; accepte, _as adj. pl._ accepted, viii. . acces, _s._ feverish attack, viii. ; xviii. ; accesse, viii. . accident, _s._ accidental quality, i. ii. . ; accident, ii. . accompte, _ pr. s._ account, i. ii. . ; _pp._ i. ii. . . accomptes, _s. pl._ accounts, ii. . accord, _s._ agreement, xviii. . accordaunce, _s._ agreement, i. ii. . . accordaunt, _adj._ agreeing, xviii. . accorde, _ger._ to agree, to rime, ii. ; _pr. s._ suits, viii. ; _ pr. pl._ agree, iii. ; _pr. pl._ i. ii. . ; _pres. pt._ xx. . see acorde. acertained, _pp._ made sure, informed, xx. . achates, _s. pl._ purchases, i. ii. . . acomered, _pp._ encumbered, i. iii. . ; troubled, i. iii. . . acompt, _v._ reckon, i. ii. . . acordaunces, _s. pl._ agreements, i. ii. . . acorde, _ger._ to agree, i. ii. . ; _pr. s._ i. ii. . ; _pr. pl._ ix. ; _a. nothing_, in no wise agree, i. ii. . . acorn, _s._ acorn, viii. . a-croke, _adv._ amiss, xxiv. . a-dayes, _adv._ by day-time, xxii. . adherand, _pres. pt._ cleaving, i. i. . . admirall, _s._ prince, chief, ii. . adnulled, _pp._ annulled, i. iii. . . adnullinge, _s._ annulling, i. i. . . ado, to do, viii. . a-down, _adv._ down here, ii. . a-drad, _pp._ afraid, i. ii . ; iv. ; filled with fear, i. i. . , . adulacioun, _s._ flattery, xii. . adversair, _s._ adversary, xxiv. . advertence, _s._ attention, xi. . adverteth, _imp. pl._ heed, note, xiii. . a-ferd, _pp._ afraid, ii. ; aferde, i. i. . . a-fere, on fire, x. . a-ferre, _adv._ afar, viii. . affect, _s._ desire, i. iii. . . affectuously, _adv._ with desire, i. iii. . . affermed, _pp._ affirmed, iv. . affiched, _pp._ fixed, set, i. ii. . . affirmatif, _s._ the affirmative, i. iii. . . affray, _s._ conflict, trouble, xx. . affrayed, _pp._ frightened away, xviii. ; frightened, xxiv. . affy, _v._ trust, xxvii. ; affye, _pr. pl._ x. . aforn, _adv._ previously, viii. ; x. . afray, _ger._ to frighten, ii. . after, _adv._ afterwards, xvi. ; after as, according as, i. i. _pr._ . after, _prep._ for, i. ii. . ; i.e. to get, i. ii. . ; after oon, i.e. always alike, xvi. . after-game, _s._ second game, return-match, xvi. . after-reward, _s._ following reward, i. iii. . . agadred, _pp._ gathered together, ii. . agasteth, _pr. s._ frightens greatly, i. ii. . . agilted, _pt. s._ sinned against, ii. . agnelet, _s._ little lamb, x. . agnus-castus (see the note, p. ), xx. . agoon, _pp._ gone away, viii. ; ago, xvii. . agramed, _pp._ angered, ii. . agryse, _v._ feel terror, ii. , , ; xviii. ; _pr. pl. subj._ let them fear, ii. . ague, _s._ feverish attack, ix. . air, _adv._ early, xvii. . akele, _v._ cool, xxiv. . aken, _pr. pl._ ache, iv. ; ake, viii. . a-knowe, _pp._ perceived, recognised, xxiv. . al, _conj._ although, i. i. . . alay, _s._ alloy, i. ii. . ; alayes, _pl._ vii. . alaye, _v._ allay, viii. . alday, _adv._ continually, i. i. . ; iv. . alder-last, _adv._ last of all, viii. . aldernext, _adj._ next of all, xv. _a._ . ale, _s._ ale, ii. . alegeaunce, _s._ alleviation, xvi. . aleged, _pp._ alleged, adduced, i. ii. . . alegement, _s._ alleviation, xii. . alegge, _v._ alleviate (me), xix. . algate, _adv._ in any case, iv. ; viii. ; always, iv. . algates, _adv._ in all ways, i. iii. . ; at any rate, i. ii. . . a-lighte, _v._ be glad, be cheerful, i. i. . . allegeaunce, _s._ alleviation, relief, xvi. ; xxiv. ; xxv. . all-holyest, _adj._ holiest of all, ii. . almesse, _s._ alms, ii. ; xxiii. ; almous, (his) pittance, xvii. . almoigner, _s._ almoner, i. i. _pr._ . aloes, _s._ aloes, i. i. . . al-only, _adv._ only, i. iii. . . a-loughter, a-laughing, xxiv. . al-out, _adv._ altogether outside, xvi. . alowe, _pr. s. subj._ may (he) approve, ii. ; alowed, _pp._ approved of, i. i. . . als, _adv._ as, xvii. , ; al-so, as, xii. . alterait, _pp._ altered, xvii. . alther-grettest, _adj._ greatest of all, very great, xvi. . alther-last, _adv._ last of all, viii. . a-maistry, _v._ conquer, i. ii. . ; rule, i. i. . ; amaistrien, _v._ subdue, i. ii. . ; _pr. s._ masters, overpowers, i. ii. . ; compels, i. iii. . ; _pp._ conquered, got by mastery, i. ii. . ; overcome, i. i. . . amat, _pp._ cast down, viii. . amayed, _pp._ dismayed, xviii. . ambes as, double aces, xiii. . see note, p. . amendes, _s. pl._ amends, retribution, ii. . amerced, _pp._ fined, ii. . amisse-going, _s._ trespass, i. ii. . . amonesteth, _pr. s._ admonishes, i. i. . . among, _adv._ meanwhile, viii. ; x. ; xxi. . and, _conj._ if, i. i. . . ane, a, xvii. . aneuch, _adj._ enough, xvii. , . anguis, _adj._ distressful, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . see n. e. d. a-night, by night, xix. . anis, _adv._ once, xvii. . ankers, _s. pl._ anchors, i. ii. . . anon-right, _adv._ immediately, xx. , . anoy, _s._ vexation, i. ii. . ; annoy, discomfort, xx. . anoynt, _pp._ anointed, iv. . antecedent, _s._ antecedent statement, premiss, i. ii. . . anulled, _pp._ annulled, i. iii. . . a-pace, _adv._ quickly, viii. . apal, _v._ be appalled, faint, xxii. . apart, _adv._ apart, xxiv. . apayed, _pp._ pleased, satisfied, iii. , ; apayd, xxi. ; _wel a._, well pleased, xviii. ; _evel a._, ill pleased, xviii. . apayred, _pp._ depreciated, i. ii. . . apeche, _pr. pl._ impeach, xiii. ; apeched, _pp._ i. i. . . apend, _v._ belong, ii. . a-per-se, a by itself, the chief letter, prime thing, xvii. . apert, _adj._ open; _prevy nor apert_, secret nor open, in no respect, xvi. . apertly, _adv._ openly, i. iii. . ; without concealment, i. i. . ; apertely, i. iii. . . apeted, _pp._ sought after, i. ii. . . see the note, p. . apeyre, _v._ suffer evil, be harmed, xviii. ; apeyred, _pp._ injured, i. iii. . ; defamed, i. i. . . apeyse, _v._ appease, xvi. . a-place, into its right place, iv. . apostata, _s._ apostate, iii. , ; apostatas, _pl._ iii. . appair, _v._ blame, harm, xxiv. . appalle, _pr. s. subj._ fade, vi. . apparaile, _s._ ornamentation, xxiv. . apparaylen, _pr. pl._ attempt, i. i. . . appeired, _pp._ impaired, xx. ; harmed (i.e. much harm is done), i. ii. . . apperceyved,_ pp._ perceived, i. i. . . appertly, _adv._ openly, evidently, i. ii. . . appropred, _pp._ appropriated, reserved, i. ii. . ; assigned, vi. . aptes, _s. pl._ natural tendencies, i. iii. . . (unique.) aquytest, _pr. s._ payest, i. iii. . . ar, _pr. pl._ are; it ar, they are, xvi. . arayse, _ger._ to raise, i. ii. . . arbitrement, _s._ choice, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . . areir, _adv._ behindhand, xvii. . arered, _pp._ set up, i. i. . . arest, _s._ spear-rest, xx. . 'with spere in thyn _arest_ alway'; rom. rose, . arest, _s._ stopping, arresting, i. ii. . ; arrest, i. ii. . . areysed, _pp._ raised up, i. ii. . ; raised, v. . ark, _s._ arc, course, viii. . arke, _s._ ark, x. . armony, _s._ harmony, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . ; xxiv. . armure, _s._ armour, xiii. . arn, _pr. pl._ are, vi. ; ix. . arras, _s._ cloth of arras, xxiv. . arsmetrike, _s._ arithmetic, i. iii. . . arted, _pl. s._ provoked, xxiv. . artyk, _adj._ northern, xvii. . as, _with imp._, pray, v. ; as than, at that time, just then, xvii. . as, _s. pl._ aces, xiii. . ash, _s._ ash-tree, viii. . askaunce, _adv._ askance, aside, xvi. . asker, _s._ one who asks, i. ii. . . askes, _s. pl._ ashes (i.e. penance), ii. . asketh, _pr. s._ requires, i. i. _pr._ ; i. ii. . . aslaken, _v._ assuage, xxiv. . asotted, _pp._ besotted, xvi. . assay, _s._ trial, i. i. . ; v. ; attempt, xvi. ; assayes, _pl._ trials, i. ii. . . assembled, _pt. s._ brought (them) together, xvi. . assentaunt, _pres. pt._ assenting, i. i. . , ; i. iii. . . asshen, _s. pl._ ashes, i. iii. . . assomoned, _pp._ summoned, xxiv. . assoyle, _ger._ to explain, i. iii. . ; asoile, _v._ answer, xxiv. ; _pp._ explained, i. iii. . ; absolved, iii. . assyse, _s._ way, fashion, ii. ; size, xxiv. ; _of a._, of a like size, suitable to each other, xxi. . assysed, _pp._ fixed, set; _or perhaps_, assessed, rated, iv. ; regulated, iv. . astarte, _pt. s._ escaped, ii. . astate, _s._ estate, rank, xxiv. . asterte, _v._ escape, i. i. . ; v. ; viii. ; start aside, give way, i. ii. . ; _pr. s. subj._ escape, ix. ; _pt. s._ escaped, xxiv. . astonied, _pp._ astonished, i. i. . ; xx. . astrangled, _pp._ strangled, i. iii. . . astray, _adv._ astray, ii. ; xx. . astronomye, _s._ astronomy, i. iii. . . asured, _pp._ rendered blue, blue, i. ii. . . at, _prep._ from, xvii. . ataste, _v._ taste, i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; atasted, _pp._ i. iii. . . a-throted, _pp._ throttled, strangled, i. ii. . . (unique.) atour, _prep._ beyond, xvii. . attame, _v._ subdue (lit. tame), xvi. . see _atame_ in n. e. d. attemperaunce, _s._ moderation, xxi. . attempre, _adj._ temperate, viii. . attourney, _s._ attorney, i. i. . ; viii. . attyred, _pp._ attired, ii. . auctoritÈ, _s._ authority, i. i. . ; xvi. . auctour, _s._ author, i. iii. . . augrim, _s._ arithmetic, i. ii. . . auld, _adj._ old, xvii. . auncestrye, _s._ ancestry, iv. ; auncetrye, xxiv. . aureat, _adj._ golden, x. ; xxiv. . aurore, _s._ dawn, xix. . auter, _s._ altar, i. ii. . . authorysed, _pp._ considered as authoritative, iv. ; authoreist, _pp._ authorised, xvii. . authour, _s._ author, i. iii. . . autumpne, _s._ autumn, viii. . availe, _s._ value; _esier a._, less value, _or_, easier to obtain, xxiv. . avantours, _s. pl._ boasters, xvi. . see note, p. . avaunce, _s._ advancement, ii. . avaunce, _v._ promote, viii. ; x. ; succeed, xiii. ; _imp. s. refl._ advance, come forward, approach, xvi. ; _pt. pl. refl._ advanced, came forward, xvi. ; _pp._ promoted, i. i. . . avauncement, _s._ promotion, i. iii. . . avaunt, _s._ boast, v. ; xvi. . avaunte, _ pr. s._ boast, i. i. . ; _pr. pl._ boast, i. ii. . . avauntour, _s._ boaster, xvi. , ; avaunter, boaster, xxiv. . avayl, _s._ prevalence, xxi. . avayl, _v._ be of use, ii. ; _pp._ made valid, iv. ; _pres. pt._ useful, i. i. . . aventure, _s._ fortune, xvi. ; luck, xvi. . aver, _s._ wealth, i. i. . . a. f. _aveir_, f. _avoir_. avisee, _adj._ prudent, ix. ; xii. . avoide, _ger._ to depart, i. i. . . avow, _s._ vow, ii. ; xviii. ; avowe, ix. . avowe, _v._ vow, iv. ; xviii. ; own, acknowledge (it), ii. . avowing, _s._ vowing, i. i. . . avowries, _s. pl._ protectors, iii. . avyse, _s._ advice, xvi. ; xxi. ; consideration, viii. . avysement, _s._ consideration, viii. ; xviii. . avysenesse, _s._ advisedness, xxi. . avysinge, _pres. pt._ considering, i. i. . . awayt, _s._ lying in wait, watching an opportunity, xvi. ; attendance, viii. ; ambush, snare, xvi. . awayte, _v._ wait, xvi. ; _ger._ to wait for, try, xvi. . awayward, _adv._ away, i. i. . ; aside, xvi. . a-werke, at work, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . a-whaped, _pp._ amazed, viii. . awin, _adj._ own, xvii. . awreke, _pp._ avenged, xviii. . awter, _s._ alter, xxiv. . axe, _v._ ask, iii. . axing, _s._ asking, request, v. . ay, _s._ egg, ii. . ayein, _adv._ back again, xvi. . ayen-bringe, _v._ bring back, i. i. . . ayencoming, _pres. pt._ returning, i. iii. . . ayenËs, _prep._ in return for, ii. ; ayens, ready for, viii. . ayen-looking, _pres. pt._ looking back, i. i. . . ayenst, _prep._ against, ii. . ayenturning, _s._ power of turning again, i. ii. . . ayenward, _adv._ back again, i. ii. . ; in return, i. i. . ; on the contrary, on the other hand, i. iii. . ; xvi. . ayre, _s._ air, xvi. . azure, _s._ azure, i.e. _lapis lazuli_, i. iii. . , . badde, _adj._ bad, evil, i. ii. . . badde-meninge, _adj._ ill-intentioned, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . baid, _pt. s._ abode, xvii. . baill, _s._ bale, sorrow, xvii. ; harm, xvii. . bair, _s._ boar, xvii. . bair, _adj._ bare, xvii. , . bait, _s._ food (for horses), xvii. . bait, _v._ feed, xxiv. (see note, p. ); baited, _pp._ baited, ii. . bakbyte, _ger._ to backbite, xii. . bakker-more, _adv._ further back, xvi. . bal, _s._ ball, iv. ; eye-ball, i. i. . . balaunce, _s._ balance, iv. ; the balance, xiii. ; _in b._, in his sway, xvi. . balays, _s._ balas-ruby, xxi. ; baleis, xxiv. . bale, _s._ evil, i. ii. . . balefull, _adj._ evil, ii. , . balke, _s._ balk, check, difficulty, ii. . ball, _s._ a horse's name, ii. . ballet, _s._ ballad, poem, xvii. . bandon, _s._ disposal, i. ii. . . banere, _s._ banner, xx. . bankes, _s. pl._ banks, i. ii. . . see note to l. , p. . bankouris, _s. pl._ benches, soft seats, xvii. . banne, _pr. pl._ swear, xxiv. . baptyme, _s._ baptism, iii. . bar, _pt. s._ bore, carried, xx. , . bareyne, _adj._ barren, void, v. . bargaret, _s._ a pastoral song, xx. . see note, p. . barge, _s._ boat, xxiv. ; ship, iv. . baselardes, _s. pl._ short swords, ii. . basse, _s._ base, i. ii. . . basse, _s._ kiss, buss, xxiv. . batayled, _pp._ assaulted, iv. . baudriks, _s. pl._ belts, ii. . baume, _s._ balm, viii. . bawme-blossom, _s._ balm-blossom, x. . bay, _s._ bay; _at bay_, ii. . bayn, _s._ bath, xxi. . bay-window, _s._ window with a bay or recess, xxiv. ; _pl._ xxi. . be, _adv._ by the time that, when, xvii. . beau, _adj._ fair, xxiv. . bede, _pt. s._ bade, ii. . bedred, _adj._ bedridden, iii. . bedreint, _pp._ drenched, wetted, xxiv. . beestly, _adj._ animal, i. ii. . . beet, _pt. s._ beat, ii. . before-weting, _s._ foreknowledge, i. iii. . ; beforn-, i. iii. . . before-wist, _pp._ foreknown, i. iii. . . begeten, _pp._ begotten, i. iii. . ; begete, ii. . beggair, _s._ beggar, xvii. . begonne, _pt. pl._ began, xviii. ; _pp._ iv. . behave, _v._ behave (himself), i. i. . . behest, _s._ promise, i. i. . ; _pl._ i. ii. . . behesten, _pr. pl._ promise, iii. . behight, _ pr. s._ promise, assure, xx. ; _pt. s._ promised, iv. ; (apparently) commanded, xvi. . behold, _pp._ beheld, xxiv. . behoten, _pp._ promised, i. iii. . . behove, _s._ behoof, i. ii. . . behovely, _adj._ fit, suitable, iv. . beikit, _ pt. s._ warmed, xvii. . beildit, _pp._ built, xvii. . being, _s._ existence, i. ii. . . beinge-place, _s._ home, i. iii. . . be-knowe, _ger._ to acknowledge, i. ii. . . belchere, _s._ good cheer, xxi. . beleve, _s._ belief, xvi. ; xviii. . beleved, _pp._ left, i. ii. . . belive, _adv._ at once, xvii. . belle, _s._ bell, viii. ; _gen._ ii. . benched, _pp._ provided with benches, viii. ; xx. . benches, _s. pl._ benches, or banks of turf, xxi. . bend, _s._ band, girdle, xxiv. ; bendes, _pl._ bonds, ii. . bene, _adv._ excellently, xvii. . bene, _s._ bean, xxiv. . bene-breed, _s._ bean-bread, i. ii. . . benimen, _v._ take away, i. i. . . bequath, _pt. s._ bequeathed, iv. . beraft, _pp._ bereft, i. i. . ; v. . berayned, _pp._ rained upon, x. . bere, _s._ bear, ii. , . bere him in honde, make him believe, iii. ; _pt. pl._ bore, carried, xx. , ; berest in honde, _ pr. s._ accusest, iii. ; beren on honde, accuse falsely, v. . berel, _s._ beryl, viii. ; xxi. . bernes, _s. pl._ barns, i. i. . . beseen, _pp._ adorned, xx. ; besene, arrayed, xvii. . besette, _v._ bestow, place, i. i. . ; xi. ; _pp._ bestowed, xxiv. ; used, ii. ; set up, viii. . be-seyn, _pp._ adorned, xii. ; xxiv. . beshet, _pp._ shut up, i. i. . . besmyteth, _pr. s._ defiles, i. ii. . . see the note, p. . besprad, _pt. pl._ spread over, xxiv. . bestad, _pp._ hardly beset, iv. ; be-sted, _pp._ bestead, circumstanced, ii. . bestial, _adj._ bestial, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . bestiallich, _adj._ bestial, i. ii. . . bestialtÈ. _s._ fleshliness, i. iii. . . beswinke, _ger._ to toil for, i. i. . . bet, _adv._ better, viii. ; xxii. . betake, _pp._ committed (to), i. ii. . . bete, _pp._ adorned with beaten gold, xx. . beteich, _ pr. s._ bequeath, xvii. . beten, _v._ kindle, xxiv. . betiden (= betidden), _pt. pl._ happened (to), i. i. _pr._ . betokeneth, _pr. s._ means, iii. . betrapped, _pp._ entrapped, v. . betrayden, _pt. pl._ betrayed, v. . betraysshed, _pt. s._ betrayed, i. ii. . . betterer, _adj._ better, i. ii. . . bevar, _adj._ made of beaver, xvii. . bewent, _pp._ turned aside, i. i. . . bewrye, _v._ disclose, utter, xxiv. . bicche, _s._ bitch, ii. . bigge, _ger._ to build, ii. . bigon, _pp._ beset; _wel b._, well placed, well situate, in a good position or case, xx. . see _bego_ in the new e. dict. bil, _s._ petition, xxi. ; billes, _pl._ xxi. . bileved, _pp._ believed, i. ii. . . bilowen, _pp._ lied against, belied, v. . biquath, _pt. s._ bequeathed, vii. . bit, _pr. s._ bids, xxiv. . bitte, _s._ bit, i. ii. . . bla, _adj._ livid, xvii. . icel. _blár_. blabbing, _pres. pt._ prattling, v. . blaiknit, _pp._ lit. made bleak, deprived, xvii. . blasours, _s._ proclaimers, trumpeters, i. i. . . blemisshed, _pp._ injured, i. ii. . . blend, _pp._ blinded, ii. . blenk, _s._ glance, look, xvii. . blenking, _s._ look, xvii. . blent, _pp._ blinded, ii. ; viii. (see note, p. ). blere, _adj._ blear, dim, i. ii. . . blered, _pp._ bleared, dimmed, v. . bliss, _ pr. s._ bless, xxiv. . blobere, _v._ to blubber, to sob, i. ii. . . blustringe (_probably for_ bluschinge), _s._ brightness, i. i. . . see note, p. . blyfe; _as bl._, as quickly as possible, xxiv. ; heartily, xxiv. ; as soon as possible, ix. ; xxiv. . blyvely, _adv._ soon, i. iii. . . bochour, _s._ butcher, ii. . bode, _ pt. s._ remained, xxiv. . boden, _pp._ bidden, iii. . boistously, _adv._ rudely, xx. . boket, _s._ bucket, i. iii. . . bolded, _pp._ emboldened, xvi. . bole, _s._ bull, i. i. . ; xx. ; taurus, viii. . bollen, _pp._ swollen, overcharged, viii. . bolne, _ger._ to swell, i. ii. . . bond, _s._ bond, ii. . bond, _pt. s._ bound, viii. . bondmen, _s. pl._ serfs, ii. . bood, _ pt. s._ abode, xvi. . boon, _s._ boon, petition, xxi. . boot, _s._ boat, xiii. . bordes, _s. pl._ tables, xvi. . bordure, _s._ border, rim, viii. . bore, _s._ boar, viii. . boren, _v._ bore, i. i. . . borne, _ger._ to burnish, ornament, adorn, xxiv. . borowe, _s._ pledge; _to b._, as a security, viii. . bosardes, _s. pl._ buzzards, ii. . bosse, _s._ stud, boss, xx. . bost, _s._ boast, v. . bosteous, _adj._ noisy, xvii. . boster, _s._ boaster, ii. . bote, _s._ good, benefit, vii. ; help, xx. . both, _s._ booth, tabernacle, i. ii. . . bouk, _s._ body; _bouk and boon_, body and bone, x. . see new e. d. boun, _adj._ ready, iv. ; xvii. . bour, _s._ bower, ii. . bowe, _v._ bend, give way, xvi. , . bowes, _s. pl._ boughs, viii. , . boystous, _adj._ rough, boisterous, i. i. _pr._ ; ii. ; rough, poor, lowly, ii. ; rude, xxii. . brak, _pt. s._ brake, v. . brast, _pt. s._ burst, xviii. ; _ pt. s._ i. i. . ; _pt. pl._ xx. ; penetrated, xvii. . braunchelet, _s._ small branch, x. . braunches, _s. pl._ branches, i. iii. . . bravie, _s._ prize of running, x. . see note. brayd, _s._ moment, xxiv. . braying, _pres. pt._ clanging, ii. . brede, _s._ breadth, viii. ; xx. . breird, _s._ lit. blade (of grass, &c.); _on br._, in growth, on the increase, xvii. . breist, _s._ breast, xvii. . brenne, _pr. s. subj._ burn, xviii. ; _pr. pl._ xviii. ; brende, _ pt. s._ burnt, xi. ; _pt. s. subj._ should burn, i. ii. . ; brent, _pt. s._ burnt, xxiv. ; brent, _pp._ ii. ; brend, _pp._ ii. ; _pres. pt._ burning, i. i. . ; brennende, i. i. . ; brennande, i. i. . . brenningly, _adv._ hotly, v. . brent, _adj._ high, smooth, xvii. . bretherhedes, _s. pl._ brotherhoods, iii. . brid, _s._ bird, xviii. , ; briddes, _pl._ viii. ; xviii. . brige, _s._ contention, trouble, i. i. . . see note, p. . brind, _adj._ hot (lit. burnt), xxiv. . see note, p. . brinke, _s._ brink, edge, margin, i. ii. . ; viii. . broched, _pt. s._ violated, xxiv. . broches, _s._ brooches, ii. . broke, _s. dat._ brook, xviii. ; -syde, brook-side, xviii. . broken, _pp._ torn, i. ii. . . broste, _pp._ burst, xi. . see brast. brotel, _adj._ brittle, frail, i. i. . . brotelnesse, _s._ frailty, xiii. . brouk, _ pr. pl._ use, make use of, enjoy, xxi. . browdered, _pp._ braided, xxiv. ; ornamented, xvii. . brukilnes, _s._ frailty, xvii. . brukkil, _adj._ brittle, xvii. . brydel, _ger._ to restrain, i. ii. . . buckelers, _s. pl._ bucklers, ii. . bucket, _s._ bucket, ii. . see note. buit, _s._ advantage, profit, help, xvii. . see bote. bullar, _s._ bubble, xvii. . bulle, _s._ bull, iv. . burely, _adj._ fit for a lady's bower, xvii. ; handsome, xvii. ; large, xvii. . see p. . burjonen, _v._ bud, i. iii. . . burjoning, _s._ budding, bud, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . burjoning-tyme, _s._ time of budding, i. iii. . . burjons, _s. pl._ buds, i. iii. . . buskit, _pp._ adorned, xvii. . busteous, _adj._ boisterous, rough, xvii. ; huge, xvii. . see boystous. but, _prep._ without, i. iii. . ; xvii. , ; except, i. iii. . . but-if, _conj._ unless, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . buxom, _adj._ obedient, hence, subject, i. i. . . buxumnesse, _s._ obedience, vi. . by, _prep._ with reference to, xvii. ; by that, for the reason that, i. i. . . by and by, in due order, ix. ; xx. , . bye, _v._ buy, i. i. . ; _ pr. s._ viii. . bylis, _s. pl._ boils, tumours, xvii. . by-pathes, _s. pl._ by-ways, i. i. . . byte, _v._ bite, devour, ii. ; bytande, _pres. pt._ biting, bitter, i. i. . . cables, _s. pl._ cables, i. ii. . . cacchende, _pres. pt._ catching, comprehensive, i. ii. . . cacching, _s._ getting money, ii. . cace, _s._ case; _in c._, perchance, xvii. . cairful, _adj._ full of care, mournful, xvii. , . caitif, _adj._ wretched, xxiv. . caitived, caytifved, _pp._ imprisoned, kept as a captive, i. i. . . cald, _adj._ cold, xvii. . call, _s._ caul, head-dress, ii. . call, _adj._ (_prob. error for_ tall), ii. . see untall. calm, _s._ calm, vii. . can, _ pr. s._ know, possess, xvi. ; _can pas_, did pass, went, xvii. ; _can discend_, caused to descend, xvii. ; canst, _pr. s._ knowest, ii. . captyves, _s. pl._ wretches, captives, ii. . cardiacle, _s._ a disease of the heart, pain in the heart, i. ii. . . cardinall, _s._ cardinal, ii. , . care, _s._ misery, i. i. . . careckes, _s. pl._ characters, marks, ii. . carkË, _v._ be anxious, ii. , . carpen, _ pr. pl._ talk about, discuss, i. ii. . . cassidony, _s._ chalcedony, xxi. . see note. cast me, _ pt. s._ designed, intended, xvi. . casuel, _adj._ subject to chance, xxii. . catel, _s._ wealth, i. ii. . ; catell, ii. ; cattal, ii. . cathedrals, _s. pl._ cathedrals, ii. . cattel-cacching, _s._ getting money, ii. . cauld, _s._ cold, xvii. . causeful, _adj._ circumstantial, weighty, i. iii. . . cautel, _s._ trick, iii. ; cautele, v. ; _pl._ deceits, xxii. . cawdell, _s._ a warm gruel, mixed with wine or ale, and sweetened or spiced, given chiefly to sick people, xxiv. . see _caudle_ in the n. e. d. caytif, _s._ captive, wretch, i. i. . ; _pl._ ii. . caytifnesse, _s._ captivity, wretchedness, i. i. . . caytive, _adj._ wretched, xvii. . cedre, _s._ cedar, x. ; _pl._ viii. . cedule, _s._ schedule, writing, xxi. . celler, _s._ cellar, i. ii. . . celsitude, _s._ highness, xxiv. . celured, _pp._ ceiled, canopied, viii. . cercle, _s._ circle, xxi. . cereal, _adj._; _c. okes_, holm-oaks, xx. . see note. cesse, _ger._ to cease, xvi. ; cessing that, when that ceases, v. . chace, _s._ chase (at tennis), iv. . see note. chafed, _pp._ heated, warmed, i. ii. . ; chafinge, _pr. pt._ i. ii. . . chaffren, _pr. pl._ bargain for, ii. . chair, _s._ chariot, car, xvii. ; xx. . chalenge, _v._ claim, i. i. . ; _ pr. s._ claim, xvi. ; _pr. pl._ iii. . chalmer, _s._ chamber, xvii. , . chamberer, _s._ lady of the chamber, xxiv. . chanons, _s. pl._ canons, ii. , ; iii. . chapelayns, _s. pl._ chaplains, iii. . chapelet, _s._ chaplet, xx. , ; chapelets, _pl._ xx. , , , . chapitre, _s._ chapter, i. iii. . . chapman, _s._ trader, iii. ; chapmen, _pl._ iii. . chapter-house, _s._ chapter-house, iii. . char, _s._ chariot, vii. ; viii. . charge, _s._ responsibility, viii. ; xvi. ; burden, i. i. . ; blame, xxiv. ; _pl._ burdens, i. ii. . . chase, _pr. pl._ chase, persecute, ii. . chase, _pt. s._ chose, xvi. . chauncellere, _s._ chancellor, xxi. . chaunsel, _s._ chancel, i. ii. . . chauntements, _s. pl._ enchantments, i. i. . . chauntours, _s._ singers, ii. . chayre, _s._ throne, xxi. . chees; see chese. chere, _s._ demeanour, xxiv. ; good cheer, xvi. ; _pl._ looks, xiv. . cherelich, _adj._ prodigal, ii. . read _not cherelich_; see note, p. . cheryce, _v._ cherish, vii. ; cheryse, xxiv. . chese, _ger._ to choose, i. ii. . ; chesen, _ger._ vii. ; _ pr. s._ ix. ; _imp. s._ _ p._ let him choose, xvi. ; chees, _pt. s._ chose, iv. ; viii. ; cheisit, _pt. pl._ chose, xvii. . chesing, _s._ choice, ix. . cheste, _s._ chest, viii. . cheverit, _pt. pl._ shivered, shook, xvii. . see chiver. chevisaunce, _s._ usury, dealing for profit, xii. . chevyce, _v._ preserve, v. . chid, _pp._ chid (pp. of _chide_), xviii. . childing, _pres. pt._ bearing a child, x. . chippes, _s. pl._ chips, i. i. . . chiver, _ pr. s._ shiver, viii. . chorl, _s._ churl, viii. . chose, _pp._ chosen, iv. . choweth, _pr. s._ chews, ii. . christned, _pp._ christened (person), ii. . churlich, _adj._ churlish, poor, ii. . circute, _s._ circuit; _c. cours_, complete course, i. iii. . . citole, _s._ zedoary, x. . cladde, _pp. pl._ clothed, ii. . clam, _pt. s._ climbed, xvii. . clamure, _ger._ to clamour, i. i. . . clappe, _pr. pl._ prate, v. ; clappen, i. i. . ; clappeth, _pr. s._ prates, v. . clapper, _s._ clap-dish, as carried by lepers, xvii. , . clatter, _ger._ to proclaim, applaud, i. i. . . clergion, _s._ chorister-boy, i. ii. . . clepe, _ pr. s._ cry, viii. ; _pr. pl._ call, name, vi. ; _pr. pl._ ii. ; _imp. s._ call, i. ii. . ; _pt. pl._ called, i. ii. . ; _pp._ i. iii. . ; v. . clim, _v._ climb, xvii. . clinke, _s._ clink, sound, ii. . clippinges, _s. pl._ embraces, i. i. . . clips, _s._ eclipse, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . clokes, _s. pl._ cloaks, xx. . close, _pr. pl._ are included, come together, i. iii. . ; _pp._ enclosed, i. i. . ; xxi. . coaccion, _s._ compulsion, i. iii. . . coarted, _pp._ constrained, i. i. . ; compelled, i. iii. . . cockes, _s._ (_for_ goddes), ii. . cockle, _s._ darnel, i. ii. . . cockle, _s._ shell, x. . cocold, _s._ cuckold, xxiv. . cofren, _ger._ to put in a chest, ii. . cokkow, _s._ cuckoo, xxiv. . colers, _s. pl._ collars, xx. . coles, _s. pl._ coals, i.e. charcoal, i. i. _pr._ . collatioun, _s._ banquet, xvii. . collinges, _s. pl._ embracings, i. ii. . . colour, _s._ pretence, iii. , ; viii. . columbe, _s._ dove, x. . columpne, _s._ column, x. . com of, be quick! xxi. ; come of, come on, i. i. . . comberaunce, _s._ trouble, xxi. . combred, _pp._ encumbered, burdened, i. i. . . comfortable, _adj._ comforting, i. ii. . . cominaltee, _s._ a community, i. i. . . commende, _pres. pt._ coming, i. iii. . . commens, _s._ commons, rations of food, i. i. . . commens, _s. pl._ the commons, i. i, . . commensal, _adj._ partaking of a common repast, feeding with others, i. i. . . comminaltÈ, _s._ commons, ii. ; _pl._ communities, i. iii. . . comming, _pres. pt. as adj._ future, sure to happen, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . . comoditÈ, _s._ advantage, i. iii. . . comonaltÈ, _s._ commonalty, xxiv. . comparacion, _s._ comparison, i. ii. . . comparisoned, _pp._ compared, i. i. _pr._ ; i. i. . ; i. ii. . . compas, _s._ circuit, xx. ; _a certain of c._, within a certain distance round, xvi. ; _of compas_, in a circle, xxi. . compassed, _pp._ contrived, v. . compteth, _pr. s._ accounts, i. iii. . ; compted, _pp._ accounted, i. ii. . ; counted, i. ii. . . compulcion, _s._ compulsion, i. iii. . . comune wele, commonwealth, i. i. . . con, _ger._ to observe, note, xxiv. . conceit, _s._ liking, fancy, xvi. ; conceyt, xvi. ; imagination, v. ; xvi. . conclude, _v._ include, i. ii. . . see note, p. . conclusioun, _s._ result, xiii. . concours, _s._ due course, xiii. . conding, _adj._ excellent, xvii. . conduit, _s._ conduit, x. . conduite, _v._ conduct, demean, xvi. . confessoures, _s. pl._ confessors, iii. . confiteor, _s._ confession, iii. . conformes, _adj. pl._ similar, shewing conformity (with), like (to), i. iii. . . confounde, _v._ confuse, trouble, viii. . congeled, _pp._ congealed, i. ii. . . congelement, _s._ congealment, i. ii. . . conisaunce, _s._ cognisance, badge, i. i. . . conjectements, _s._ devices, i. ii. . . conjunccion, _s._ conjunction, i. iii. . ; conjoining, i. ii. . . conjuracions, _s. pl._ conspiracies, i. i. . . conne, _v._ know how (to), i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; be able, i. ii. . ; _pr. pl._ know, ii. , ; iv. ; can, v. ; may, i. iii. . . conneccion, _s._ connexion, i. ii. . . conning, _s._ skill, i. i. _pr._ . conservatrice, _s._ preserver. x. . consigned, _pp._ dedicated, x. . consistory, _s._ consistory-court, ii. . constaunce, _s._ constancy, xiii. . constrewe, _v._ construe, translate, i. ii. . ; _imp. s._ i. iii. . . contenence, _s._ continence, xxvi. . contingence, _s._ contingence, conditional state, i. ii. . . contingent, _adj._ contingent, i. i. . ; conditional, i. ii. . . contradiccion, _s._ a contradiction, i. ii. . . contradictorie, _s._ opposite, i. ii. . . contrariaunt, _adj._ opposing, i. iii. . ; contrariant, i. ii. . ; contrariauntes, _pl._ contravening, i. i. . . contrarien, _pr. pl._ contradict (it), ii. ; _pt. s. subj._ should contradict, i. ii. . ; would oppose, i. iii. . . contraries, _s. pl._ contrary things, i. ii. . . contrarious, _adj._ contrary, i. ii. . . contrarioustÈ, _s._ contrariety, i. ii. . ; contradiction, i. iii. . ; opposition, i. iii. . . contrary-doers, _s. pl._ trespassers, i. iii. . . convenient, _adj._ fitting, suitable, xi. ; xx. ; xxiv. . cop, _s._ cup, xvii. , . cop, _s._ top, i. iii. . . cope, _s._ cope, cape, iii. ; i. i. . ; _pl._ xxiv. . cornes, _s. pl._ grains of corn, i. i. . . corowned, _pp._ crowned, i. iii. . . cosinage, _s._ relationship, i. ii. . ; relatives, i. ii. . . cost, _s._ side, xx. ; _pl._ coasts, regions, xxiv. . costages, _s. pl._ expenses, i. i. . . costey, _v._ coast along, viii. . cote, _s._ coat, i. iii. . . couched, _pp._ set, xxi. . coude, _pt. pl._ knew, xviii. . counten, _pr. pl._ (they) count, expect, ii. . countenaunce, _s._ sign, i. ii. . ; semblance, xvi. . counterfaytours, _s. pl._ counterfeit dealers, ii. . counterpaysing, _s._ an equivalent, i. i. . . counterplete, _v._ plead against, contradict, i. i. . ; _v._ plead against me, i. ii. . ; _pp._ pleaded against, xxiv. . countervayle, _ger._ to equal, i. i. . ; _pp._ balanced, i. iii. . . countours, _s._ accountants, ii. . coupable, _adj._ culpable, v. . coure, _v._ cower, cringe, ii. . courser, _s._ horse, ii. . courteours, _s._ courtiers, xxiv. . courtes, _s. pl._ court-houses, iii. . court-holding, _s._ holding of courts, ii. . couth, _pt. s._ knew how, xvi. . covenable, _adj._ suitable, i. iii. . . cover, _v._ recover (themselves), i. ii. . ; obtain, i. ii. . . covert, _adj._ secretive, sly, very prudent, xvi. . covertours, _s._ coverings, ii. . covins, _s. pl._ complots, i. i. . . cowpis, _s. pl._ cups, flagons, xvii. . crabbed, _adj._ crabbed, perverse, v. ; crabbit, cross, xvii. . crabbitly, _adv._ crabbedly, morosely, xvii. . crake, _pr. pl._ boast, v. . crakel, _v._ quaver, xviii. . see note. crallit, _pp._ curled, twisted, ii. . crampisshed, _pt. s._ oppressed, constrained, pained, ix. . crave, _ger._ to ask for again, xxvii. . crede, _s._ creed, ii. , . crepË, _v._ creep, ii. . cresse, _s._ blade of a cress, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . croke, _pr. pl._ go crooked, bend in, i. ii. . . croked, _adj._ crooked, indirect, i. ii. . ; curved, xiii. . croken, _adj._ crooked, i. ii. . . crokets, _s. pl._ rolls of hair, ii. . see note. crommes, _s. pl._ crumbs, i. i. _pr._ . cronique, _s._ chronicle, story, iv. , . crope, _pp._ crept, i. i. . . croppe, _s._ shoot, sprout, top, v. . crosse, _s._ cross, the cross marked on a piece of money, iii. . crosse-aleys, _s. pl._ cross-alleys, xxi. . crouche, _s._ cross, ii. . crowes, _s. pl._ crows, ii. . croysery, _s._ crusade, ii. . cukkow, _s._ cuckoo, xviii. . culleth, _pr. s._ kills, ii. , ; _pr. pl._ ii. . cultre, _s._ coulter, ii. . cure, _s._ care, xvi. ; xxiv. ; guard, xvii. ; diligence, viii. ; attention, i. iii. . ; cure (of souls), ii. ; responsibility, xx. . curious, _adj._ curious, anxious, ii. ; nice, ii. ; choice, vii. . currant, _s._ current, _or adj._ running, x. . curreyden, _pt. pl._ curried favour, i. i. . . currish, _adj._ like a cur, xvi. . curteys, _adj._ gentle, ii. . custome, _s._ custom, i. iii. . . cut, _ger._ curtail, xvii. ; _pp._ cut short, ii. . dame, _s._ mother, i. ii. . ; ii. ; dames tonge, mother-tongue, i. i. _pr._ . damoselles, _s. pl._ damsels, i. ii. . ; girls, ii. . dampnÁble, _adj._ damnable, vi. . dampne, _v._ condemn, ii. ; _pr. s._ ii. ; _pp._ damned, i. i. . ; condemned, viii. . dased, _pp._ dazed, ii. . daunger, _s._ control, v. . daungerous, _adj._ disdainful, xxiv. ; cross, xxiv. ; difficult to please, xxiv. ; forbidding, i. i. . . daunten, _v._ subdue, i. ii. . . dawe, _s. pl. dat._ days; _by elder dawe_, in olden times, ii. . a.s. _dagum_. daweninge, _s._ dawning, ix. . dawing, _pres. pt._ dawning, xxii. . dayesye, _s._ daisy, xviii. . dayneth, _pr. s._ deigns, i. ii. . . deaurat, _pp._ gilded, made of a golden colour, viii. . debat, _s._ strife, vii. ; uneasiness, xvi. ; _pl._ i. ii. . ; combats, i. i. . . debated, _pp._ striven about, iv. . but read _delated_, i.e. deferred; the trentham ms. has _deleated_, meant for _delated_. debonair, _adj._ courteous, xx. ; gentle, v. . deed, _adj._ dead, ii. . deedly, _adj._ mortal, i. ii. . ; deedliche, i. iii. . ; dedly, i. iii. . . deeth, _s._ death, viii. . defame, _ger._ to accuse falsely, iii. . defased, _pp._ defaced, i. i. . ; made cheerless, i. i. . . defaut, _s._ default, trespass, i. i. . ; xvi. (obscure); xvi. ; defaute, fault, i. ii. . ; iii. ; _pl._ iv. . defence, _s._ power to defend, x. . defend, _v._ forbid, ii. ; _pt. s._ forbade, i. iii. . ; ii. ; _pp._ forbidden, i. iii. . . defendinge, _s._ forbidding, i. iii. . . deformait, _adj._ deformed, ugly, xvii. . defoule, _ger._ to defile, v. ; _ pt. s._ defiled, i. i. . ; _pp._ i. ii. . . degest, _pp._ digested, considered, xvii. . deid, _s._ death, xvii. , . deid, _s._ deed, doing, xvii. . deificait, _pp._ accounted as gods, xvii. . del, _s._ portion; _every del_, every bit, xxi. . delated; see debated. dÉlectable, _adj._ delightful, xxi. . dÉlitable, _adj._ delightful, viii. . deliver, _adj._ nimble, viii. . deliveraunce, _s._ deliverance, i. i. . . delytable, _adj._ delightful, i. ii. . . delyte, _v._ delight, viii. , . deme, _v._ judge, xii. ; _ pr. s. subj._ vii. ; _pr. s._ condemns, i. ii. . ; _pp._ judged, adjudged to be true, approved, ii. ; condemned, ii. . demene, _s._ demeanour, xxiv. . demeyne, _s._ control, ix. ; xvi. . demin, _v._ deem, suppose, i. iii. . ; _pr. pl._ (?), ii. . see deme. deming, _s._ suspicion, xvii. . demure, _adj._ sedate, ix. ; xvi. ; xx. ; xxi. ; xxiv. . demurely, _adv._ sedately, xvi. . denarie, _s._ pay, wages, x. . denominacion, _s._ naming, i. ii. . . dent, _s._ stroke, blow, dint, i. iii. . , ; xxiv. . denwere, _s._ doubt, i. i. . . a false form; see note, p. . departe, _v._ separate, xvi. ; sever, i. i. . ; part, xxiv. ; impart, xvi. ; _pr. s. subj._ part, i. i. . ; _pp._ divided, i. ii. . ; parted, xi. ; rent, xx. . departicion, _s._ divorce, i. iii. . . departing, _s._ separation, i. iii. . ; xvi. ; distributing, i. ii. . . depeynt, _pp._ painted, viii. ; depeynted, xxiv. . dequace, _v._ suppress, i. i. . ; put down, i. i. . ; _ger._ to repress, i. ii. . . dere, _v._ do harm, i. i. . . dereworthinesse, _s._ fondness (for), i. ii. . . dereworthly, _adv._ preciously, x. . dere-worthy, _adj._ precious, i. i. . . descry, _ger._ to describe, xxiv. . desesperaunce, _s._ despair, desperation, xvi. , . deslavee, _adj._ unchaste, inordinate in conduct, xii. . destenyed, _pp._ predestined, i. iii. . . desyrously, _adv._ eagerly, i. iii. . . determinacions, _s. pl._ ordinances, settlements, i. i. . . determine, _adj._ fixed, xxiv. . determine, _ger._ to end, i. iii. . ; _pp._ settled, fixed, i. ii. . . determinison, _s._ determination, definition, i. ii. . . dettour, _s._ debtor, vi. . deviacion, _s._ deviation, going astray, i. iii. . . devoir, _s._ duty, xvi. . (f. text, _devoir_.) devoit, _adj._ devout, xvii. . devyn, _adj._ divine, xvii. . devynly, _adj._ divine-like, i. iii. . . devyse, _s._ device, xxi. . devyse, _v._ relate, xx. ; xxi. . dew, _adj._ due, xxi. . dew-dropys, _s. pl._ dewdrops, xxix. . dewe, _s._ due; _of dewe_, duly, xxiv. . dewetÈ, _s._ duty, due course, iv. . deydest, _ pt. s._ didst die, were to die, i. i. . ; _pt. s._ died, vii. . deyne, _v. refl._ deign, i. ii. . . deynous, _adj._ disdainful, i. i. . ; i. i. . (see note); i. i. . ; deynouse, _fem._ v. . deyntees, _s._ dainties, ii. . diamant, _s._ diamond, xxiv. . diffame, _pr. pl._ defame, i. i. . . diffyne, _v._ define, v. . dighteth, _pr. s._ gets ready, ii. ; _pr. s. subj._ may (he) arrange _or_ place, x. ; _pp._ ornamented, ii. ; xx. . digne, _adj._ worthy, v. ; xix. . digned, _pp._ honoured, x. . dinne, _s._ din, noise, i. ii. . . diourn, _adj._ daily, x. . diriges, _s. pl._ dirges, burials, iii. . dirk, _adv._ in the dark, xxiv. . disalowe, _v._ disapprove of, dispraise, iv. . disaventure, _s._ ill fortune, ix. . disceyvable, _adj._ deceitful, i. ii. . . disciplyning, _s._ correction, i. ii. . . disclaunder, _v._ slander, ii. ; _pr. pl._ ii. ; _pr. s._ speaks slander, i. ii. . . disclaundring, _s._ slandering, i. ii. . . discomfit, _adj._ discomfited, sad, xvi. . discomfiteth, _pr. s._ discomforts himself, grieves, i. ii. . ; _pp._ discomforted, i. ii. . . discordaunce, _s._ disagreement, i. ii. . . discordaunt, _adj._ discordant, i. i. . ; discordantes, _s. pl._ things discordant, i. ii. . . discovert, _pp._ discovered, made known, xvi. . discrete, _adj._ separate, i. iii. . . discryve, _v._ describe, viii. ; ix. ; xxiv. ; _ger._ xxi. . disencrees, _s._ decrease, viii. . disese, _s._ misery, woe, xviii. ; xx. ; annoyance, i. i. . , ; anger, ii. . disesed, _pp._ made wretched, i. i. . . disesely, _adj._ uncomfortable, i. iii. . . dishevel, _adj._ dishevelled, xxiv. . dishonest, _adj._ shameful, v. . disloged, _pp._ banished, xxi. . dismaye, _v._ feel dismay, i. ii. . . dispence, _s._ expence, ii. ; _pl._ i. i. . . dispende, _ger._ to spend, vii. ; xxii. ; _pr. pl._ ii. ; dispent, _pp._ spent, i. i. . . dispense, _ger._ to dispense, iii. . dispitous, _adj._ contemptuous, i. i. . ; spiteful, xii. . displesaunce, _s._ displeasure, xvi. ; xxi. ; xxv. . disport, _s._ amusement, xvi. ; _pl._ xvi. . disporte, _ger._ to amuse, interest, viii. ; _v. refl._ be merry, viii. ; _ pr. s. refl._ throw myself about, tumble and toss, i. i. . . dispreyse, _v._ blame, i. ii. . . dispyt, _s._ contempt, ii. ; viii. . dissever, _v._ part, depart, ix. ; _pp._ separated, ii. . disseveraunce, _s._ separation, xi. ; xxiv. . dissimulacion, _s._ (_ill used for_ simulation), imitation, i. ii. . . dissimulait, _adj._ full of dissimulation, xvii. . dissimulen, _v._ dissimulate, v. . dissolucioun, _s._ dissolute conduct, xii. . distaunce, _s._ strife, vi. ; vii. ; disagreement, ii. . distempreth, _pr. s._ intoxicates, xv. _a._ . distourbour, _s._ disturbance, i. iii. . . distraineth, _pr. s._ constrains, xxiv. ; _pp._ afflicted, viii. . distruccioun, _s._ destruction, ix. . distrye, _v._ destroy, ii. . (in ii. , perhaps _distry_ should be _discry_, i.e. describe.) diurnal, _adj._ daily, viii. . do, _imp. s._ cause, i. i. . ; _pp._ done, iv. ; come to an end, xiv. ; do way, do (it) away, put (it) aside, abandon (the idea), i. i. . . docke, _s._ dock (plant), i. i. . ; i. iii. . . doctrine, _s._ learning, i. ii. . . dole, _s._ sorrow, woe, x. ; xxiv. . doleful, _adj._ sad (ones), x. . dolven, _pp._ buried, i. ii. . ; wrought, i. i. _pr._ . dombe, _adj._ dumb, i. ii. . . dome, _s._ judgement, xx. ; _gen._ ii. . domesday, _s._ doom's-day, x. . don, _pp._ done; _d. but lent_, only lent, xxvii. . donatyf, _s._ gift, reward, x. . donet, _s._ primer, i. ii. . . see note, p. . donne, _adj. pl._ dun, dark, ix. . dooly, _adj._ mournful, xvii. , . doon, _error for_ do, _ pr. s. subj._ do, act, xxiv. . dotage, _s._ folly, xv. _a._ , xv. _b._ . dote, _ger._ to be a fool, i. i. . ; _v._ xxiv. . doth, _imp. pl._ cause, make, xxiv. . doublenesse, _s._ duplicity, xiii. . douceperes, _s. pl._ the twelve peers (of charlemagne), xx. . douf (_old text_ doif), benumbed (lit. deaf), xvii. . see note. doule, _s._ down-feather, ii. . see note. dour, _adj._ stern, severe, oppressive, xvii. . dout, _s._ fear, ii. . doute, _ger._ to be feared, iv. ; _ pr. s. refl._ fear, xxi. . dradde, _ pt. s._ dreaded; feared, i. i. . ; drad, _pp._ frightened, ii. ; afraid, ii. . draught, _s._ draught, drawing, i. iii. . . drede, _s._ dread; _withoute d._, without doubt, xx. . drede, _ger._ to fear, v. . dredful, _adj._ timid, v. ; xvi. ; fearful, ix. ; fearful (to offend), xxiii. . drenche, _ pr. s._ am drowned, i. i. . . dreriheed, _s._ dreariness, viii. . dresse, _v. refl._ advance, xxiv. ; address myself, viii. ; _ger._ to direct, xxiv. ; dresse, xiii. ; _pr. pl. refl._ direct themselves, ii. ; _ pr. pl. subj._ direct our way, go forward, xxi. ; dress you, _imp. pl. (as s.)_, direct yourself, go, xxiv. ; drest, _ pt. s. refl._ advanced, xx. ; dressed, _pt. s. refl._ advanced, i. iii. . . drive, _pp._ driven, i. i. . . dropping, _pres. pt._ dripping, xx. . drow, _pt. s._ withdrew, xvi. . drowpit, _pt. pl._ drooped, xvii. . drowry, _s._ love-token, xvii. . dualitÈ, _s._ duality, doubleness, i. ii. . . duchees, _s. pl._ duchies, v. . duËtee, _s._ duty, vi. ; ix. , . duleful, _adj._ grievous, xvii. . dullen, _v._ render dull, i. iii. . . duracioun, _s._ duration, endurance, x. . duresse, _s._ hardness, xvi. ; force, i. iii. . ; constraint, i. i. . ; stress, i. i. . ; cruelty, xvi. . dureth, _pr. s._ lasts, i. i. . . during, _adj._ enduring, x. . dwale, _s._ a sleeping draught made from the deadly nightshade, xxiv. . dyamaunt, _s._ diamond, x. . dyking, _pres. pt._ ditching, ii. . dys, _s. pl._ dice, xiii. . dytÈ, _s._ ditty, song, poem, viii. ; ix. ; xvii. . ebbe, _s._ ebb, vii. ; xiii. . eche, _ger._ to increase, i. iii. . ; eched, _pp._ i. ii. . . edefye, _ger._ to build, i. i. . ; _v._ vii. . edwyte, _v._ accuse, reproach, xii. . ee, _s._ eye, xxiv. . see eye. eet, _pt. s._ ate, i. i. . ; xx. ; eten, _pp._ eaten, xx. . effunde, _ pr. s._ pour out, xix. . efter, _conj._ according as, xvii. . egall, _adj._ equal, xxiv. . egally, _adv._ equally, impartially, xxiv. . eglantere, _s._ sweet-briar, xx. , . see the note, p. . eighteth, _adj._ eighth, i. i. . . eird, _s._ earth. xvii. . eirdly, _adj._ earthly, xvii. , . eke-names, _s. pl._ nicknames, i. ii. . . elde, _s._ old age, i. i. . ; i. i. . . elde-faders, _s. pl._ ancestors, i. ii. . . eleccioun, _s._ choice, v. . electuairis, _s. pl._ electuaries, xvii. . elementes, _s. pl._ elements, i. ii. . . elenge, _adj._ mournful, miserable, xviii. . embelisshed, _pp._ honoured, dignified, x. . embrouded, _pp._ embroidered, xxi. . emeraud, _adj._ emerald, xxiv. ; _s. pl._ xx. . emispere, _s._ hemisphere, xxii. . empryse, _s._ enterprise, ii. ; design, v. ; _pl._ viii. . enamayl, _s._ enamel, xxi. . enbolded, _pp._ emboldened, i. i. . . enchace, _v._ chase, xvi. . enchesoun, _s._ reason, v. . encheynen, _ger._ to link together, _or_, to be linked together, i. ii. . . encomberaunce, _s._ encumbrance, trouble, xvi. , ; xxi. . encombred, _pp._ encumbered, hindered, defeated, x. . encrees, _s._ increase, ii. . endry, _v._ suffer, endure, xxiv. , . see note, p. . enduced, _pp._ induced, i. ii. . . endyte, _v._ indite, viii. ; ix. ; _pr. pl._ indict, ii. . endyting, _s._ composition, inditing, xxii. . ene, _s. pl._ eyes, xvii. . enfame, _s._ disgrace, i. i. . ; reproach, i. i. . . enfect, _pp._ infected, stained, xxiv. . enfeffed, _pp._ invested (with), possessed (of), xvi. . enforme, _ger._ to inform, i. ii. . ; to give information, i. ii. . ; _pr. pl._ instruct, i. ii. . . enfourmer, _s._ instructor, i. ii. . . engendrure, _s._ conception, i. ii. . ; nativity, i. i. . ; _pl._ i. ii. . . engyn, _s._ device, xxiv. ; ingenuity, v. . enhaunce, _ger._ to exalt, v. ; _pr. pl._ increase, i. ii. . ; _pp._ advanced, ii. . enlumineth, _pr. s._ illumines, i. ii. i. ; _pp._ i. i. . . enmoysed, _pp._ cheered, comforted, i. i. . . see note, p. . enpeche, _v._ impeach, accuse, i. i. . . enpeyred, _pp._ injured, i. i. . . enpight, _pp._ infixed, i. i. . . enpited, _pp._ filled with pity, i. ii. . . (the sole known example of the word.) enplede, _v._ plead against, ii. . enpoysonen, _ger._ to poison, i. iii. . . enprent, _imp. s._ imprint, xxiv. . enprisoned, _pp._ imprisoned, i. ii. . . ensample, _s._ example, i. i. . . enseled, _pp._ sealed, i. i. . . ensure, _ pr. s._ assure, xx. , ; xxi. . ensyse, _s._ kind, sort, ii. . entalented, _pp._ excited, v. . see n.e.d. entayl, _s._ cutting; _of e._, with excellent cutting, xxi. . entencion, _s._ intention, design, i. ii. . ; v. ; xxiv. ; signification, i. iii. . ; viii. . entendaunce, _s._ service, vii. . entende, _v._ intend, xxii. . entent, _s._ intent, desire, xvi. ; xxiv. ; _pl._ ii. . ententyf, _adj._ attentive, v. . enterchaunged, _pp._ interchanged, i. ii. . . entere, _adj._ entire, xxiv. ; true, ix. . entermeting, _pres. pt._ intermeddling, i. iii. . . entrechangen, _v._ interchange, i. ii. . . entrecomuned, _pp._ had communication, i. i. . . entremellen, _pr. pl._ intermingle, i. i. . . entremes, _s._ course between two more substantial ones, xvi. . see note. entreprise, _s._ enterprise, xvi. . entune, _s._ tune, tone, xi. . entuned, _pp._ kept in tune, xx. . enviroun, _adv._ all round, xxi. ; environ, xxiv. . envolved, _pp._ enwrapped, i. i. . . envyroned, _pp._ surrounded, i. ii. . ; envyroning, _pres. pt._ encircling, viii. . equipolent, _adj._ equal in power, xii. . equivocas, _s. pl._ words of like meaning, i. iii. . . see note, p. . er, _adv._ sooner, xviii. . erber, _s._ arbour, xxiv. . erdly, _adj._ earthly, xxvii. . ermyne, _s._ ermine, xx. . ernest-silver, _s._ earnest money, i. i. . . erst, _adv._ soonest; _non erst_ (error for _non er_), no sooner, xxiv. . eschaunge, _s._ change, xiii. . eschetour, _s._ an escheator, i. ii. . . eschewing, _s._ avoidance, avoiding, xvi. , . esclaundre, _s._ scandal, v. . esperaunce, _s._ hope, xxiv. ; esperans, xvii. ; _on e._, in hope, xi. . esperus, hesperus, the evening-star, viii. . esploit, _s._ result, success, xi. ; esployte, i. i. . . espoire, _s._ hope, i. ii. . . estate, _s._ state, xxi. ; _pl._ vii. . et, _pr. s._ (_short for_ eteth), eats, xiv. , . eterne, _adj._ eternal, i. iii. . . evangely, _s._ gospel, ii. ; iv. . even, _adv._ close; _e. by_, close by, xx. . even-christen, _s._ fellow-christian, iii. . evenforth, _adv._ continually, i. ii. . ; forwards, i. i. . . evenhed, _s._ equality, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . . evenlich, _adv._ equally, i. iii. . ; similarly, i. iii. . . evenliche, _adj._ equal, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . even-lyk, _adv._ exactly so, viii. ; exactly, viii. . ever, _adv. as s._ eternity, i. i. . . ever in oon, _adv._ continually, viii. . everich, _adj._ each one, xx. . everichon, _pron._ every one, xx. . eve-sterre, _s._ evening-star, i. ii. . . ewage, _s._ a precious stone having the colour of sea-water, x. , . see note. excitation, _s._ instigation, i. i. . . excitours, _s. pl._ exhorters, instigators, i. i. . . excusacion, _s._ excuse, i. i. . ; v. . exemplair, _s._ exemplar, xx. . exempt, _pp._ exempted, iii. . expert, _adj._ experienced, xxiv. . exploytes, _s. pl._ successes, successful results, i. i. . . expone, _v._ recount, xvii. ; expowne, _imp. s._ expound, i. iii. . . expuls, _s._ expulsion, repulse, xvii. . extend, _s._ extent, ii. . eye, _s._ eye; _at e._, visibly, i. ii. . ; eyen, _pl_. xvi. . see ee. eylen, _v._ ail, xviii. . eyre, _s._ air, i. ii. . ; viii. ; eyr, xiv. . fachioun, _s._ falchion, curved sword, xvii. . facound, _adj._ eloquent, xvii. . facultees, _s. pl._ facilities, opportunities, i. i. . . fade, _adj._ dull, sombre, iv. . fade, _ger._ to cause to wither, i. i. . ; faidit, _pp._ xvii. . fain, _adj._ glad, xx. . fair, _s._ fare, xvii. . fallas, _s._ deceit, i. ii. . , . falle, _v._ happen, i. i. . ; xvi. ; _pr. s._ is suitable, iii. . falowen, _pr. pl._ fade, i. ii. . . falsen, _ger._ to deceive, v. ; _pt. s._ gave way, failed, i. ii. . ; was false to, i. i. . . falsetÈ, _s._ falsehood, i. ii. . ; _pl._ i. ii. . . falsheed, _s._ falsehood, i. iii. . . famed, _pp._ defamed, ii. . familier, _adj._ familiar, (once) friendly, i. ii. . . famulers, _s. pl._ familiar friends, i. ii. . . fand, _ pt. s._ found, xvii. . fanes, _s. pl._ vanes, weather-cocks, xxi. . fantasy, _s._ fancy, xxi. ; xxvii. ; folly, xiv. ; pleasure, i. i. _pr._ ; _pl._ xxi. . farced, _pp._ stuffed, filled, xxiv. . fare, _pr. pl._ go, xx. ; fare, ii. ; farn, _pp._ fared, i. ii. . . fasoun, _s._ make, xxi. , ; fassioun, habit, xii. . faucon, _s._ falcon, xvi. . faute, _s._ lack, viii. ; faut, fault, xxiv. . fay, _s._ faith, xvii. ; xviii. . fayn, _ pr. pl._ feign, make a pretence, xxiv. . fayrhede, _s._ beauty, i. ii. . . faytours, _s._ deceivers, ii. , . fecht, _ger._ to fight, xvii. . federed, _pp._ feathered, xvi. ; fedderit, xvii. . feffe, _ger._ to endow, xxiv. ; _pr. s._ xvi. . feill, _s._ experience, knowledge, xvii. . feird, _adj._ fourth, xvii. . fel, _adj._ cruel, wicked, xvi. ; evil, xiii. . felauship, _s._ company, xxi. . felawes, _s. pl._ companions, xxi. . feld, _pp._ overthrown (lit. felled), i. i. . . fele, _adj._ many, xx. ; xxiv. , . feled, _pp._ felt, perceived, i. ii. . . fell, _adj._ cruel, ii. ; terrible, xvii. ; fellest, worst, iii. . felle, _v._ overturn, v. . felloun, _adj._ destructive, xvii. . felly, _adv._ cruelly, ix. . felonous, _adj._ evil, i. i. . ; wicked, i. ii. . . felterit, _pp._ entangled, xvii. . femininitee, _s._ womanhood, ix. . feminitee (_for_ femininitee), _s._ womanliness, xvii. . fend, _s._ the fiend, xxiv. ; _pl._ ii. . fenyeit, _pp._ feigned, xvii. . feorthe, _adj._ fourth, vii. (_title_). fer, _adv._ far, xxi. . ferd, . _pt. s._ fared, was, xxiv. . ferde, _s._ fear, i. i. . . ferde, _adj. pl._ afraid, i. ii. . . ferdeth, _pr. s._ feels fear, i. ii. . . ferdful, _adj._ timid, i. ii. . . ferdnesse, _s._ fear, terror, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; i. iii. . ; i. iii. . . fere, _s._ companion, comrade, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; feres, _pl._ x. . fere, _s._ fire, viii. ; _on f._, on fire, x. . ferforth, _adv._ far onward, i. ii. . ; xxi. ; far, xxi. . ferme, to, to farm, on hire, ii. , ; iii. . fervence, _s._ ardour, viii. ; x. ; xxii. . fervent, _adj._ severe, xvii. . fete, _adj._ neat, xxiv. . fettes, _pr. pl._ fetch, ii. ; fet, _pp._ i. ii. . . fevers whyte, _s. pl._ attacks of lovelonging, xviii. . see note. feyntyse, _s._ feigning, deceit, xvi. . fig; _a fig for_, xxiv. . figurait, _pp._ figured, imaged, xvii. . fikilnesse, _s._ fickleness, vi. . fil, _pt. s._ came to pass, iv. . filthes, _s. pl._ low women, v. . firre, _s._ fir, viii. . fit, _s._ bout, xxiv. . flambing, _pres. pt._ flaming, x. . flaming, _adj._ flame-coloured, xxiv. . see note to l. . flanis, _s. pl._ arrows, xvii. . flash, _s._ sheaf, quiver (?), xvii. . flawe, _adj._ yellowish (?), xxiv. . see note. flebring, _s._ gossip (?), i. ii. . . or is it an error for _fabling_? flees, _s._ fleece, v. ; x. . flete, _v._ float, xxiv. . fley, _pt. s._ flew, xviii. , . flickering, _adj._ wavering, i. ii. . . flitte, _v._ stir, i. i. . ; move, i. i. . ; change, xvi. ; remove, xx. ; _pr. pl._ go away, i. i. . ; flittinge, _pres. pt._ volatile, fading, i. ii. . . floon, _s. pl._ arrows, viii. . see flanis. florished, _pp._ garnished, iii. . florisshinge, _s._ adornment, florid use, i. ii. . . flour, _s._ flower, chief, xxiv. ; chastity, iv. . floured, _pp._ full of flower, vii. . flowe, _pp._ flown, ii. , , ; come, i. i. . ; gone, i. ii. . . flyte, _pr. pl._ chide, scold, ii. . foir-speikar, _s._ first speaker, xvii. . fol, _adj._ foolish, xvi. . folde, _pp._ enfolded, i. iii. . . fole, _s._ fool, ii. ; _voc._ xviii. . fon, _v._ to be foolish, act foolishly, dote, xxiv. . fond, _pt. s._ found, viii. . fongeth, _pr. pl._ take, ii. . foole, _adj._ foolish, xix. . foon, _s. pl._ foes, v. ; viii. . for, _prep._ on account of, i. i. . ; for fear of, ii. ; xvii. , . for, _conj._ because, i. iii. . ; iii. . forayne, _adj._ foreign, alien, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . for-barre, _v._ bar up, repress, xvi. . forbed; see forbit. forbere, _v._ forbear, xxiv. . forbit, _pr. s._ forbids, i. iii. . ; forbood, _pt. s._ forbade, ii. ; forbed, ii. ; forbode, _pp._ forbidden, i. ii. . ; forboden, _pp._ i. i. . . forbode, _s._ prohibition, ii. . forby, _adv._ by; _passe forby_, to pass by, to take no notice, xxiv. . forcast, _pp._ cast away, viii. . force; _of f._, of necessity, xvii. ; _no f._, it is no matter, i. i. . . forcer, _s._ casket, shrine, xvi. . fordo, _v._ annul, iii. ; for-don, _pp._ destroyed, iii. . fordoinge, _s._ annulling, i. iii. . ; destruction, i. iii. . . fore-nempned, _pp._ aforenamed, i. ii. . . forfayture, _s._ trespass, iv. . for-ferde, _pp. pl._ extremely afraid, i. i. . . forfeyt, _s._ injury, xvi. . forfeytest, _ pr. s._ offendest, i. ii. . . forged, _pp._ made, xxiv. . for-gerd, _pp._ ruined, destroyed, ii. . see stratmann. forgete, _pp._ forgotten, xvi. . forgo, _v._ forgo, ii. . forgoing, _s._ giving up, i. i. . . forgrowen, _pp._ overgrown, xx. . forjuged, _pp._ condemned, i. i. . ; viii. . forlane, _pp._ lit. for-lain, deflowered, xvii. . forleten, _pp._ forsaken, i. ii. . . forlyth, _pr. s._ lies with, iv. . forncast, _pp._ forecast, i. i. . . for-quhy, _adv._ because, xvii. . fors, _s._ matter, iii. ; v. . forsake, _pp._ refused, rejected, xvi. . for-shronk, _pp._ shrunken up, xx. . forsoken, _pt. pl._ forsook, v. . forswat, _pp._ covered with sweat, ii. . forswonke, _pp._ worn with toil, ii. . forswore, _pp._ forsworn, v. . fort, _adj._ strong, xiv. . forth, _adv._ forward; _do f._, go on, v. . for-than, _adv._ therefore, ii. . fortherer, _s._ advancer, promoter, xxiv. . fortheringe, _s._ helping forward, preparing, i. ii. . . forthren, _v._ further, ii. ; _pr. s._ advances, viii. ; _pp._ i. i. . . forthright, _adv._ immediately, xx. . for-thy, _adv._ therefore, v. ; _nat for-thy_, all the same, nevertheless, xvi. . fortunait, _adj._ afflicted by fortune, xvii. . fortuned, _pp._ directed by fortune, xiii. . forward, _adv._ afterwards, i. iii. . . forward, _s._ covenant, agreement, i. i. . ; -warde, i. i. . . for-weried, _pp._ tired out, xxi. . forweting, _s._ foreknowledge, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . . forwot, _pr. s._ foresees, i. iii. . . foryete, _v._ forget, v. ; foryet, _pr. s._ ii. ; _pr. pl._ i. ii. . ; _pp._ i. i. . . foryeting. _s._ forgetfulness, i. iii. . . foten, _pr. pl._ foot, dance, xxiv. . foul, _s._ a foul or evil fate, ii. . foule, _adj._ ugly, viii. . foulers, _gen._ fowler's, i. ii. . . foules, _s. pl._ birds, ii. . foundement, _s._ foundation, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . foyles, _s. pl._ leaves, x. . fra, _adv._ from, xvii. ; from the time that, as soon as, xvii. . fraternitÈ, _s._ fraternity, iii. . fraunchyse, _s._ freedom, xvi. , ; liberality, xvi. ; privileged place, viii. . fraward, _adj._ froward, xvii. . fray, _ger._ to quarrel, xxiv. . frayne, _imp. s._ ask, iii. ; _ pt. s._ xxiv. . freel-witted, _adj._ thin-witted, i. iii. . . freesed, _adj._ very cold, i. ii. . . freisit, _pt. s._ froze, xvi. . frele, _adj._ frail, vii. ; xxii. . frend, _for_ fremd, _adj._ strange, ii. . frended, _pp._ befriended, i. iii. . . freres, _s. pl._ friars, ii. ; xxiv. . fresshe, _ger._ to refresh, x. . fret, _s._ ornament, xx. . fret, _pp._ lit. adorned, xxiv. ; hence, furnished, xiii. . frete, _pr. pl._ fret, annoy, xxiv. ; fretes, _pr. pl._ eat, devour, ii. ; frettith, _pr. pl._ (_or s._), vex, xxiv. . frith, _s._ coppice, xvi. . frivoll, _adj._ frivolous, hence, poor, base, xvii. . fro, _prep._ after, viii. . fronsit, _pp._ wrinkled, xvii. . frounter, _s._ first attack, xvi. . see note. fructif, _adj._ fruitful, x. . fructifying, _pres. pt._ fruit-producing, x. . fulfilled, _pp._ filled full, i. ii. . ; v. . futur, _adj._ future, i. iii. . . fyle, _ger._ to file, to whet, viii. , . fynding, _s._ food, ii. . fyne, _s._ end, viii. , ; xvi. . fyned, _pp._ refined, i. ii. . . fynesse, _s._ fineness, i. ii. . ; fynenesse, i. ii. . . fyrles, _s._ without fire, x. . ga, _v._ go; _ga dy_, go and die, xvii. . gabbest, _ pr. s._ talkest idly, i. iii. . ; gabbeth, _pr. s._ lies, v. . gabbing, _s._ boasting, xvi. . gader, _ger._ gather, iii. ; _pp._ i. i. _pr._ . gaincome, _s._ coming again, xvii. . gair, _s._ gore, strip, xvii. . galeryes, _s. pl._ galleries, xxi. . galle, _s._ gall, bitterness, xiv. . gan, _ pt. s._ did, xxiv. . garmound, _s._ garment, xvii. . garnement, _s._ garment, i. iii. . . garnishing, _s._ ornamentation, xx. . garnisoun, _s._ garrison, xvii. ; complete array, xvi. . gasteth, _pr. s._ frightens, i. ii. . . gayneth, _pr. s._ serves, helps, xvi. . geder, _ pr. pl._ gather, iii. ; _pres. pt._ collecting, ii. . gemetrye, _s._ geometry, i. i. . . generabill, _adj._ that can be produced, created, xvii. , . generaltee, _s._ generality, v. . gentillesse, _s._ nobility, i. ii. . . gentilwoman, _s._ gentlewoman, xxi. . gentyled, _pp._ ennobled, i. ii. . . gere, _s._ dress, xx. ; array, ii. . gernere, _s._ garner, i. ii. . . geson, _adj._ scarce, xiv. . gesse, _pr. pl._ guess, make guesses, ii. . gest, _s._ guest, i. ii. . ; _pl._ ii. . get, _pr. s._ gets, ii. ; gete, _pp._ gotten, obtained, iv. ; xvi. . gif, _pr. s. subj._ grant, xvii. . gif, _conj._ if, xvii. . gigges, _s. pl._ concubines, ii. . giglot-lyk, _adj._ like a giglot, like a common woman, xvii. . ginne, _ pr. s._ begin, xi. ; _pr. pl._ i. i. . . ginning, _s._ beginning, i. i. . ; ix. , . glad, _adj._ pleasant, xx. . gladde, _ger._ to gladden, please, i. ii. . ; _pp._ x. . gladsom, _adj._ pleasant, x. . glasse, _s._ glass, i.e. mirror, i. ii. . . gledes, _s. pl._ kites, ii. . gleed, _s._ glowing coal, viii. ; gledes, _pl._ i. iii. . . gleyve, _s._ glaive, sword, xxiv. . gliterande, _pres. pt._ glittering, i. ii. . ; glitterand, ii. . glose, _s._ explanation, comment, ii. . glose, _v._ explain (it) away, xxiv. ; _imp. s._ xxiv. ; _pr. s._ glosses over (things), dissembles, xxii. ; _pt. pl._ flattered, i. ii. . ; _pp._ commented upon, ii. . glosing, _s._ explaining, ii. ; flattery, i. i. . ; deception, i. i. . . glosours, _s. pl._ flatterers, i. i. . . gloton, _adj._ gluttonous, devouring, i. iii. . . glotoun, _s._ glutton, xii. . glowrand, _pres. pl._ glowering, lowering, xvii. . gnat, _s._ gnat, ii. . gnawen, _pp._ gnawed, i. ii. . . godliheed, _error for_ godheed, _s._ godhead, i. i. . . goer, _s._ walker (on foot), i. ii. . . goinge, _s._ departure, i. i. . . gold, _s._ marigold, xxiv. . gold-burned, _pp._ burnished like gold, viii. . goldfinch, _s._ xx. ; xxiv. . gold-mastling, _s._ latten, ii. . see note. gong, _s._ privy, ii. . gonnen, _pt. pl._ began, viii. ; gonne, viii. . goodlihede, _s._ excellence, ix. . goodly, _adj._ courteous, xxi. . goodly, _adj. as s._ goodness, i. iii. . , . goodly, _adv._ well, justly, i. iii. . . gospel, _s._ gospel, truth, i. ii. . . gospell-book, _s._ gospel, ii. . gostly, _adj._ spiritual, ii. . governaunce, _s._ guidance, vii. . governayl, _s._ steersman, ii. . governed, _pp._ steered, i. i. . . governeresse, _s._ mistress, xxii. . graffen, _pr. pl._ graft, i. ii. . ; _pp._ i. ii. . ; _gr. in_, become grafted into, i. i. _pr._ . grame, _s._ anger, ii. ; xxiv. ; harm, xi. . grame, _v._ make angry, vi. . gramercy, _s._ great thanks, xx. . grane, _s._ grain, minute particular, xvii. . see note. graunteth, _pr. s._ admits (a thing), i. i. . . grave, _ger._ to engrave, v. ; _pp._ buried, vii. ; xvi. ; engraved, i. iii. . . gray, _adj._ gray (referring to the franciscans), xxiv. . grede, _ pr. s._ exclaim, cry out, xviii. . gree, _s._ rank, grade, i. iii. . ; favour, ii. ; xxiv. ; _to take in gr._, to receive with favour, xvi. . greet-named, _adj._ renowned, i. i. . . greissis, _s. pl._ grasses, xvii. . grette, _pt. s._ greeted, x. ; xxiv. . grevaunce, _s._ grievance, harm, xx. . greve, _v._ grieve, vi. ; greven, _error for_ greve, _ pr. s. subj._ grieve, xxiv. . greves, _s. pl._ groves, xx. . greyned, _pp._ formed like grain, i. ii. . . griffon, _s._ griffin, ii. . gripe, _s._ grip, grasp, i. ii. . . grith, _s._ protection, ii. . grobbed, _pp._ grubbed, dug round about, i. i. . . grome, _s._ groom, xxiv. . grouf; _on gr._, in a grovelling posture, xvii. . see gruffe. grounde, _pp._ ground down, viii. . grounded, _pp._, founded, i. ii. . . grucchen, _v._ murmur, xxiv. ; grumble, ii. ; _pr. s. subj._ may grumble (at), ii. ; murmur at, xxi. . gruffe, _adv._ grovelling, viii. . grypen, _pr. pl._ grasp, ii. . gubernatif, _adj._ governing, relating to government, political, i. i. . . guerdon, _s._ reward, i. i. . ; viii. ; x. ; xvi. . guerdoneth, _pr. s._ rewards, v. ; _pp._ xxi. . guerdoning, _s._ reward, i. i. . . guerdonles, _adj._ without reward, viii. . guyse, _s._ way, xxiv. . gydit, _pt. s._ guided, xvii. . gye, _v._ guide, viii. ; xiii. ; preserve, vii. ; direct, xxiv. . gylour, _s._ traitor, xii. . gyse, _s._ manner, xxi. . gyte, _s._ mantle, xvii. , , . see note, p. . gyves, _s. pl._ fetters, ii. . habirgeoun, _s._ coat of mail, xvii. . habit, _s._ friar's dress, iii. ; dress, i. ii. . . habounde, _adj._ abundant, x. . haboundeth, _pr. s._ abounds, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . habundaunce, _s._ abundance, vi. . hace, _adj._ hoarse, xvii. , . haill, _adj._ whole, xvii. . hailsum, _adj._ wholesome, xvii. . hait, _adj._ hot, xvii. , . hale, _s._ the cry of 'haul,' ii. . haleth, _pr. s._ draws, i. i. . . halfe, _s._ side, direction, i. ii. . ; _a goddes h._, in god's name, i. ii. . . halke, _s._ nook, i. i. . ; ii. . halowe, _pr. pl._ consecrate, ii. . halse, _ pr. s._ embrace, xxiv. . halt, _pr. s._ holds, i. ii. . ; viii. ; keeps, i. i. . . halte, _adj._ halt, vi. . halve, _s._ side, i. ii. . ; part, i. iii. . ; iv. ; way, respect, i. ii. . . han, _pr. pl._ have, possess, i. ii. . ; ii. . hanche, _s._ haunch, hip, xvii. . handle, _ger._ to handle, feel, i. iii. . . hang, _pt. pl._ hung, xvii. . hap, _s._ chance, mere luck, i. i. . . happed, _pp._ chanced; _was happed_, had such fortune, xx. . happy, _adj._ due to chance, casual, i. i. . ; fortunate, v. . happyous, _adj._ chance, casual, i. i. . . harberowed, _pp._ harboured, lodged, i. ii. . . hard, _pt. s._ heard, xvii. . hardily, _adv._ certainly, xx. . hardyed, _pp._ emboldened, i. iii. . . hardyer, _adj._ more difficult, i. i. _pr._ . harlotry, _s._ evil conduct, ii. . harneys, _s._ defensive armour, i. i. . ; xx. ; harnes, xvii. . harse, _s._ _perhaps an error for_ harm, i. i. . . hart, _s._ hart, i. ii. . . hasel, _s._ hazel-bush, i. iii. . . hat, _pr. s._ is called, ii. . hate, _v._ hate; hence, put force upon, xvi. . hate, _ pr. s._ command, bid, xxi. . (better, _hote_.) haunce, _pr. pl._ enhance, advance, viii. . hautayn, _adj._ haughty, i. iii. . . havelesse, _adj._ indigent, as one that possesses nothing, xvi. . haw, _adj._ wan, dull of colour, xvii. ; livid, xvii. . hawe, _s._ haw, ii. ; _sette nat an h._, care not a haw, i. i. . . hayles, _s. pl._ hailstorms, i. iii. . . hayne, _s._ hatred, dislike, i. i. _pr._ ; i. i. . . hecht, _ pt. s._ promised, xvii. ; _pt. s._ was named, xvii. . hede-taking, _s._ taking heed, i. ii. . . heep, _s._ crowd, vi. . heer, _s._ hair, i. ii. . (see note); xiii. . heerdes, _s. pl._ herds, i. i. . . hegge, _s._ hedge, xx. , . heidit, _pp._ headed, xvii. . heil, _s._ health (e. _heit_) xvii. . heird, _prob. for_ heir it, hear it, xvii. . cf. lowl. sc. _dude_, do it (jamieson). heklit, _pp._ drawn forward over, xvii. . cf. icel. _hekla_, _hökull_. helde, _v._ hold, ii. ; helden, _ pr. s. subj._ might hold, xxiv. (ungrammatical). helded, _pp._ inclined, poured out, i. i. . . hele, _s._ health, xxiv. , ; salvation, iv. ; vii. . heledest, _pr. s._ didst conceal, i. i. . ; _pp._ hidden, i. i. . (obviously a false reading; read _deled_, distributed). helen, _v._ (to) heal, i. ii. . ; _pt. s._ healed; _h. with his hele_, healed his heel with, i. i. . . heles, _s. pl._ heels, iv. . hell-yates, _s. pl._ hell-gates, ii. . henne, _adv._ hence, xviii. . hens-forward; _from h._, from henceforth, i. ii. . . henshmen, _s. pl._ henchmen, xx. . hente, _v._ catch, i. i. _pr._ ; seize, i. i. . ; _pr. s._ catches, i. iii. . ; _pt. pl._ caught, seized, v. ; _pp._ caught, ii. ; seized, xxiv. ; gained, i. i. . . heped, _pp._ heaped, i.e. great, v. . heraud, _s._ herald, xvi. ; _pl._ xx. . herber, _s._ arbour, viii. , ; xvi. ; xx. ; xxi. . herbergere, _s._ harbinger, officer who provides apartments, xxi. , . herberowed, _pp._ lodged, i. ii. . . herberwe, _s._ harbour, x. ; herbery, shelter, xvii. . herdes, _s. pl._ shepherds, ii. . here, _s._ hair, xx. . here, _pron._ her, v. , ; ix. . here-toforn, _adv._ formerly, i. i. . . hernes, _s. pl._ corners, ii. . herre, _s._ hinge; _out of h._, off the hinge, iv. . a.s. _heorr_. herted, _pp._ hardened, strengthened, i. iii. . . hertely, _adj._ dear to my heart, xi. ; hertly, severe, viii. . hest, _s._ promise, viii. ; heste, viii. ; command, iii. ; _pl._ commands, ii. ; v. . hete, _s._ heat, xxiv. . hete, _v._ be called (_probably an error for_ hote), i. ii. . . see hote. heth, _s._ heath, xxiv. . hethenesse, _s._ pagan country, vi. . heve, _s._ the cry of 'heave,' ii. . see note. heven-kay, _s._ the key of heaven, ii. . hevye, _ger._ to be sorrowful, i. i. . . hewe, _ger._ to hew, ix. . hewmound, _s._ helmet, xvii. . hey, _interj._ hey! ii. . heyr, _s._ heir, successor, xviii. (see note); _pl._ iii. . highnes, _s._ exaltation, ii. . hight, _pr. s._ is named, xxi. ; _ pr. pl._ xxii. ; _do h._, are called, xxiv. ; _ pt. s._ promised, xxiv. ; _pp._ promised, viii. ; ix. . hildeth, _pr. s._ pours out, i. ii. . . hing, _pt. s._ hung, xxiv. ; hingen, _pt. pl._ i. i. . ; _pres. pt._ hanging, xxiv. . see hong. hit, _pr. s._ hits, xviii. . ho, _s._ proclamation, xxiv. . see note. hogges, _s. pl._ hogs, i. i. _pr._ . hoir, _adj._ lit. hoary, xvii. ; old, feeble, xvii. , . see hore. hold, _s._ fortress, ii. . holden, _pp._ beholden, i. ii. . ; compelled, i. iii. . ; holde, _pp._ bound, iv. . hole, _adj._ whole, iv. ; xviii. ; entire, xxiv. ; trustworthy, xiii. . hole, _adv._ wholly, ii. ; xxiv. . holownesse, _s._ hollow vault, concave, i. ii. . . holpen, _pp._ helped, i. ii. . . holtes, _s. pl._ woods, copses, viii. ; ix. . honde, _s._ hand, iv. . hong, _v._ hang, xx. ; hongen, _pr. pl._ iv. ; hong, _pt. s._ hung, ii. ; honged, _pp._ hung on, ii. . see hing. hony, _s._ honey, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; xxiv. . honyed, _adj._ full of honey, i. ii. . . hony-soukels, _s. pl._ honeysuckles, i. iii. . . hookes, _s. pl._ hooks, i. i. . . hool, _adj. as adv._ wholly, xvi. ; in full, xxi. . hoolly, _adv._ wholly, xxii. . hoolsom, _adj._ wholesome, viii. ; x. ; xx. . hoomlinesse, _s._ plainness of speech, v. . hoot, _adj._ hot, viii. . hoppen, _pr. pl._ dance, ii. . hore, _adj. pl._ hoary, old, hence bare (as trees in winter), viii. ; ix. . see hoir. horisons, _s. pl._ prayers, i. iii. . . horn, _s._ horn; _give us an horn_, scoff at us, xxiv. . horowe, _adj._ dirty, ii. . hors, _s. pl._ horses, xx. , . hors-harneys, _s._ horse-trappings, xx. , , . hospÍtall, _s._ hospital, xvii. . hostel, _s._ lodging, i. i. . . hote, _v._ be called, i. ii. . ; hoten, have a name, xviii. ; hote, _pt. s._ was named, xxiv. ; _pp._ called, xxiv. . houge, _adj._ huge, great, ii. . houres, _s. pl._ services, as matins, &c., xviii. . see note. houselin, _ger._ to receive the eucharist, ii. . houten, _pr. pl._ hoot, shout, ii. . how, _adv._ however, xxiv. . how, _adj._ hollow, xvii. . howsinge, _s._ building of houses, iii. . hude, _s._ hood, xvii. . huisht, _adj._ silent, i. ii. . . see below. huissht, _interj._ whist! peace! i. i. . . hulfere, _s._ holly, viii. . hy, _s._ haste; _in hy_, xvii. ; xxiv. , . hye, _v. refl._ hasten, i. iii. . ; ix. ; _imp. pl. refl._ xxi. ; _pr. s._ i. iii. . . hyly, _adv._ highly, ix. . hynd, _s._ hind, i. ii. . . hyne, _s._ hind, farm-labourer, ii. . i-cleped, _pp._ called, ii. . ideot, _s._ idiot, i. i. . ; _pl._ i. ii. . . idole, _s._ image, xvii. . ilke, _adj_. same, i. i. . ; i. i. . . impedimentes, _s. pl._ hindrances, i. ii. . . imperciable, _adj._ impervious, not to be pierced, i. i. . . imperfite, _adj._ imperfect, iii. , . importÁble, _adj._ unbearable, i. i. . ; v. . impossible, _s._ a thing impossible, i. ii. . ; impossible, vii. . imprentit, _pp._ imprinted, xvii. . impression, _s._ impression, i. ii. . . in principio, first verse of st. john's gospel, iii. . inchaungeable, _adj._ unchangeable, i. i. _pr._ . inclose, _pp._ included, i. iii. . . incommoditÈ, _s._ inconvenience, i. iii. . . inconvenience, _s._ unfitness, i. iii. . ; mistake, i. ii. . . inconvenient, _adj._ unfitting, i. iii. . . ind, _adj._ blue, xxiv. ; inde, _pl._ viii. . indifferent, _adj._ impartial, i. i. . . inductatife, _adj._ capable of being reduced, i. ii. . . infame, _s._ ill fame, disgrace, i. i. . ; ill report, i. i. . . infected, _pp._ impaired, xxiv. . in-fere, _adv._ together, ii. ; v. ; xviii. , , ; xxi. ; fully, xxi. . inflat, _pp._ inflated, blown, xvii. . infortune, _s._ misfortune, iv. . inhaunsing, _s._ enhancing, ii. . inke, _s._ ink, i. i. _pr._ . inly, _adv._ inwardly, extremely, xx. ; very, xxi. , . in-middes, _prep._ amid, xxi. . inne, _s._ inn, lodging, ii. . inne, _adv._ within, in, xviii. . innominable, _adj._ unnameable, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . inobedience, _s._ disobedience, xxiii. . inpossession, _s._ an error for 'imposition,' i.e. the imposing of a name, i. ii. . . see the note. input, _pp._ placed in, implanted, i. ii. . . inseËr, _s._ investigator, looker into, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . ; reader, i. iii. . ; _pl._ i. ii. . . insight, _s._ perception, i. ii. . . inspiracion, _s._ inspiration, i. ii. . . insuffisance, _s._ insufficiency, i. i. . . insuffysaunt, _adj._ insufficient, i. i. . . intent, _pr. s._ means, xxiv. . intere, _adj._ entire, sincere, xiii. . in-to, _prep._ in, xvii. . intrucioun, _s._ intrusion, i. i. . . inwit, _s._ conscience, i. i. . . i-paynted, _pp._ painted, ii. . i-perled, _pp._ adorned with pearls, ii. . ipocryte, _s._ hypocrite, xii. . irrecuperable, _adj._ irrecoverable, i. ii. . . is, _pron._ them, ii. . issewe, _s._ issue, flow, xvi. . itinerarie, _s._ road-book, guide, x. . ivorie, _s._ ivory, xi. . jangeling, _adj._ prattling, vain, i. iii. . . jangle, _ger._ to prattle, xvi. ; _pr. s._ prates, ii. ; xvi. . janglers, _s. pl._ praters, i. i. . . jangles, _s. pl._ idle words, i. ii. . . janglinge, _s._ discord, i. ii. . ; gossip, i. i. . ; _pl._ babblings, i. ii. . . jape, _s._ jest, i. i. . ; xxi. ; _pl._ xxii. . jay, _s._ jay, i. i. _pr._ ; ii. . jeuse, _s._ juice, i. iii. . . jocounde, _adj._ jocund, pleasant, v. . joleyvinge, _pres. pt._ cheering, i. i. . . jolif, _adj._ happy, xxiv. ; spruce, xxiv. . jonesse, _s._ youth, xxii. . jorned, _ pt. s._ journeyed, xxiv. . journey, _s._ day's work, i. i. . . jowall, _s._ jewel, xvii. . joynt, _pp. as s._ a thing closed, ii. . jumpere, _v._ jumble together; _conne j._, know how to mix, i. i. _pr._ . jupardye, _s._ risk, peril, viii. . juparting, _s._ jeoparding, risking, viii. . jurisdiccioun, _s._ jurisdiction, viii. . justes, _s. pl._ jousts, tournaments, xx. . justificacion, _s._ justification, i. ii. . . juventÈ, _s._ youth, vii. . juyse, _s._ penalty, xvi. . kalends, _s._ the beginning, vii. . kele, _ger._ to cool, xxiv. . kembe, _pr. pl._ comb, ii. ; kemmit, _pp._ xvii. . kend, _pp._ known, xvii. . kendillis, _pr. s._ kindles, takes fire, xvii. . kepe, _s._ heed, xviii. ; _i take no kepe_, i take no heed, xvi. . kepen, _ pr. s._ (_for_ kepe), take care, xxiv. . kepten, _pp._ (_false form, for_ kept), kept, xxiv. . kerve, _v._ cut, xii. ; _pr. pl._ v. . kidde, _pt. s._ shewed, v. ; kid, _pp._ made known, i. iii. . . kind, _s._ nature, xiii. . kinde, _adj._ natural, xxii. . kinges of armes, _s. pl._ kings-at-arms, xx. . kinrede, _s._ kindred, i. ii. . ; v. ; _pl._ iii. . kinrest, _s._ rest for the people, time of rest, i. i. . . see the note. kirk, _s._ church, xvii. . kite, _s._ kite, xxiv. . kith, _s._ native country, i. i. _pr._ . knette, _v._ knit, weave, suggest, i. i. . ; knitten, _pr. pl._ accept, lit. knit together, i. ii. . ; _imp. s._ knit, fasten, xi. ; _pp._ knit, ix. ; knit, _pp._ chosen, i. ii. . . knitting, _s._ choosing friends, i. ii. . . knot, _s._ knot, a fanciful term for the bliss for which a man strives, the _summum bonum_, i. ii. . . knowers, _s. pl._ men who know (it), i. ii. . . knowing, _s._ knowledge, i. ii. . . knowlegeden, _pt. pl._ acknowledged, i. i. . . knowleginge, _s._ knowledge, i. i. . ; meaning, i. i. _pr._ . knyf, _s._ knife, ii. . kyme, _s._ wretch, ii. . see note. kynde, _adj._ kindred, i. i. . . kyndely, _adj._ natural, i. i. _pr._ ; i. ii. . . kythen, _v._ (to) manifest, v. ; _imp. pl._ shew, vi. . laborious, _adj._ full of endeavour, vii. . lacche, _ger._ to seize, grasp, i. i. . . lace, _s._ tie, bond, xi. . laced, _pp._ bound, i. i. . . lache, _ pr. s. subj._ loosen (it), let go, _or perhaps_, turn coward, relax, i. ii. . . f. _lâcher_. lacke, _v._ fail, iii. . lacked, _pp._ dispraised, i. i. . ; i. i. . . lacking, _s._ blaming, i. ii. . ; dispraise, i. iii. . . ladde, _ pt. pl._ led, i. i. . ; _pp._ ix. . lade, _pp._ laden, xx. . ladels, _s. pl._ cross-paths, by-paths, i. i. . . (see note, p. .) laft, _pt. s._ remained, xx. . lak, _s._ reproof, blame, reproach, xvii. . lake, _s._ linen cloth, x. . lakken, _pr. pl._ blame, v. . lamentacious, _adj._ mournful, i. i. . . lanes, _s. pl._ pathways, tracks, i. i. . . langoring, _adj._ full of langour, swooning, i. ii. . . lapwinges, _s. pl._ lapwings, ii. . larder, _s._ larder (i.e. slaughter), i. ii. . . large, _adj._ loose, too free, ix. ; liberal, xvi. . large, _s._; _at hir l._, at freedom, free, viii. ; _at your l._, ix. . largesse, _s._ bounty, ii. ; xviii. ; xxi. . larson, _s._ larceny, ii. . las, _adj. pl._ less, xxi. . lasse, _adj._ less, i. ii. . ; iv. . lasshed, _pt. pl._ burst, ran forth, flowed, i. i. . . last, _pt. pl._ lasted, xx. . lat, _adj._ late, behindhand, ii. . lattit, _pp._ hindered, xvii. . lauch (_for_ leuch?), _pt. s._ laughed, xvii. (_or infin._ to laugh). laudest, _ pr. s._ praisest, i. i. . . laughande, _pres. pt._ laughing, i. i. . . laundË, _s._ glade, viii. ; xviii. . laureat, _adj._ made of laurel, x. . laurer, _s._ laurel, viii. ; ix. ; xx. ; -tree, xx. . lauriole, _s._ laurel crown, x. . laverok, _s._ lark, x. . lawde, _s._ praise, xxiv. . lawest, _adj._ lowest, xvii. . lawfully, _adv._ in a low tone, xvii. . lawn, _s._ lawn covering, lawn kerchief, xvii. . lay, _s._ lea, xviii. . lay, _s._ lay, song, i. iii. . . lay, _s._ law, faith, belief, v. . lay-fee, _s._ fee belonging to laymen, ii. , . layser, _s._ leisure, xi. . lazarous, _s._ leprous person, leper, xvii. , . leche, _s._ physician, i. iii. . ; x. . lechecraft, _s._ healing, i. iii. . . lectorn, _s._ lectern, xxiv. . leed, _s._ lead, ii. . leef, _adj._ lief, dear, longed for, xxi. . leefful, _adj._ permissible, vii. . leefly, _adj._ permissible, i. ii. . . leel, _adj._ loyal, ii. . lees, _s._ lie, v. . leet, _pt. s._ caused; _leet do crye_, caused to be cried or proclaimed, iv. . leffer, _adj._ liefer, xxiv. . lefful, adj. permissible, i. iii. . ; leful, i. i. . . lefte, _ pt. s._ remained, v. ; xxi. ; abandoned, iv. ; leften, _error for_ left, _pp._ left, xxiv. . lege, _adj._ liege, iii. . legeaunce, _s._ allegiance, viii. . legende, legend, v. . see note. legge, _v._ allege, xxiv. ; legen, _pr. pl._ allege, i. i. . ; leged, _pp._ alleged (to be), i. ii. . . legistres, _s. pl._ lawyers, i. ii. . . leid, _s._ lead, xvii. . leid, _s._ person, man, xvii. . leif, _ger._ to live, xvii. . leir, _ger._ to learn, xvii. . lemes, _s. pl._ rays, x. . lemman, _s._ leman, ii. ; _gen._ ii. . lene, _pr. s. subj._ may lend, i. iii. . . lene, _adj._ lean, weak, v. . leneth, _pr. s._ leans, inclines, i. ii. . . lenger, _adv._ the longer, xvi. . lengest, _adv._ longest, i. ii. . . lent, _s._ spring, xvii. . lepre, _s._ leprosy, iv. . lere, _ger._ to learn, xx. ; _pp._ learned, ii. . lerne, _ger._ to learn, to be taught, xvi. ; _ pr. pl._ teach, i. i. . ; _pp._ instructed, xvi. . lese, _ger._ to lose, ii. ; iv. ; _ pr. s._ i. i. . ; _pr. s._ xvi. ; _pr. pl._ xvi. ; _imp. pl._ vii. . lesers, _s. pl._ losers, i. i. . . lesing, _s._ losing, loss, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . lesing, _s._ falsehood, lie, xviii. ; xxi. ; xxiv. ; _pl._ i. i. . ; viii. . leste, _pt. s._ lasted (_or_, might last), i. i. . . let, _pr. s._ letteth, lets, viii. . let, _pr. s._ hinders, i. i. . . let, _pr. s._ leads, i. iii. . . lete, _v._ let go, spare, let alone, xx. ; let, _v._ pretend, xvi. ; lete, _ pr. pl._ allow to be, iii. ; let commaunde, caused men to command, xxiv. . let-games, _s. pl._ hinderers of sport, i. i. . ; i. i. . . lethy, _adj._ weak, i. iii. . . lette, _v._ hinder, iii. ; viii. ; _ger._ to prevent, ii. ; _pp._ hindered, i. i. . . letting, _s._ hindrance, i. i. . . lettours, _s. pl._ hinderers, i. i. . . lettred, _pp._ learned, xxiv. . leude, _adj._ ignorant, i. i. _pr._ . leudnesse, _s._ ignorance, want of skill, i. i. _pr._ . leve, _s._ belief, ii. . leve, _adj. pl._ dear ones, iv. . leve, _v._ leave, abandon, xvi. ; _pr. s._ leaves off, ceases, i. ii. . ; remains, i. ii. . ; is left, xvi. ; _pp._ left, i. i. . ; neglected, i. ii. . . leven, _ger._ to believe, ii. ; v. ; _v._ i. ii. . ; _ pr. s._ xvi. ; _imp. s._ xviii. ; _pp._ i. i. . . lever, _adv._ sooner, rather, i. ii. . ; viii. . leves, _s. pl._ leaves, xxiv. . lewed, _adj._ ignorant, ii. , ; lewde, unskilful, xix. ; ill-omened, xviii. . leyser, _s._ leisure, v. ; xix. ; leysar, i. i. . . lich, _adj._ like, similar, i. i. . ; ii. ; xxiv. ; liche, _pl._ alike, i. i. . . liche, _adv._ alike, xxi. . liere, _s._ liar, xxiv. . lift, _adj._ left, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . lige, _adj._ liege, vi. . ligeaunce, _s._ allegiance, i. i. . ; vi. . ligge, _ger._ to lie, i. ii. . ; lig, _v._ ii. ; _ pr. pl._ lodge, iii. ; _pr. pl._ lie still, iii. . liggen, _ pr. pl._ lay, iii. . (incorrectly used.) light, _adj._ easy, iv. ; lighter, _comp._ i. ii. . . light, _s._ lightning, xiv. . see note. as 'lightning' is certainly meant, a better reading would be _leyt_. lighte, _pr. s. subj._ may alight, alight, x. ; _pt. s._ i. i. . . lightinge, _pres. pt._ shining; _suche lightinge_, giving such a kind of light, i. ii. . . lightles, _adj._ deprived of light, i. i. . . lightly, _adv._ easily, i. ii. . ; xvi. . lightsom, _adj._ light, xvi. ; pleasant, x. . lignes (?), i. ii. . ; see note, p. . limitacion, _s._ boundary, limit, iii. . limitors, _s. pl._ friars begging within a fixed limit, iii. . limmes, _s. pl._ limbs, iv. ; xxiv. . linet, _s._ linnet, xxiv. . lipper, _adj._ belonging to lepers, xvii. ; leprous, xvii. . lipper-leid, _s._ leper-folk, xvii. . lisse, _s._ comfort, alleviation, i. ii. . . lissen, _v._ ease, relieve, xviii. ; _pp._ i. iii. . . list, _pr. s._ is pleased, i. i. . ; xvi. ; _pr. s._ prefers, likes, xvii. ; list, _ pr. pl._ are (you) pleased, xvi. ; _pr. s. subj._ may please, ix. ; _pt. s. subj._ (it) should please, ix. . listed, _pp._ listened, ix. . listis, _s. pl._ borders, xvii. . living, _pres. pt._ living, existing, (_but perhaps an error for_ leming, i.e. shining), x. . see note. livinges, _s. pl._ modes of life (?), i. ii. . (_perhaps an error for_ livinge). lodemanage, _s._ pilotage, steering, xiii. . lodesterre, _s._ lode-star, guiding star, xvi. . loËnge, _s._ praise, iv. . logge, _s._ lodge, viii. . logged, _pp._ lodged, i. i. . . logging, _s._ lodging, abode, xvi. . loke, _ger._ to look, i. iii. . ; _pr. s. subj._ let (him) see, ii. ; lokeden, _pt. pl._ looked, i. i. . . lokers, _s. pl._ onlookers, i. i. . . lollers, _s._ lollards, ii. , . londe, _s._ country, ii. . londlees, _adj._ landless, ii. . lond-tillers, _s. pl._ farmers, i. i. . . longeth, _pr. s._ belongs, i. ii. . ; ii. ; xvi. ; is suitable, xxiv. ; _pt. s._ xxi. . loos, _s._ praise, i. i. . ; fame, vi. ; _badde l._, ill fame, i. i. . . lordlych, _adj._ lordly, ii. . lore, _s._ teaching, i. i. . ; ix. . lore, _pp._ lost, ii. , . lorell, _s._ abandoned wretch, ii. , . lorn, _pp._ lost, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . lose, _s._ praise; _out of lose_, to my dispraise, ix. . losed, _pp._ praised, i. i. . , . losel, _s._ abandoned wretch, i. ii. . . losengeour, _s._ flatterer, i. ii. . . losengery, _s._ flattery, ii. ; iii. . lothe, _adj._ hated, i. i. . ; _pl._ hostile ones, iv. . lother, _adj._ more loath, xviii. . lough, _pt. s._ laughed, xxi. . loupe, _s._ a hard knot in a gem, x. , . see note. loute, _v._ bow down, ii. ; _pt. pl._ i. i. . . loutinges, _s._ salutations, respects, i. i. . . loveday, _s._ day of reconciliation, i. i. . . lowe, _s._ blaze; _on a l._, in a blaze, v. . lowed, _pp._ set low, put down, i. iii. . . lucerne, _s._ lantern, xix. ; xxiv. . lucifer, the morning-star, ix. . luifferis, _s. pl._ lovers, xvii. . luifis, _gen. sing._ love's, of love, xvii. . lure, _s._ lure, enticement, ii. ; xvi. . lurken, _pr. pl._ lurk, i. i. . . lust, _s._ pleasure, i. i. _pr._ ; xxiv. . lust, _pr. pl._ please, are pleased, xx. . lusty, _adj._ pleasureable, i. iii. . . _adv._ jollily, ii. . lyart, _adv._ gray, xvii. . lybel, _s._ bill (of divorce), i. iii. . ; xvii. . (see note, p. .) lyf, _s._ person, iv. . lyfelich, _adj._ lively, i. iii. . ; life-giving, i. i. _pr._ . lyke, _v._ please, xxiv. ; _pr. s. impers._ xviii. . lykinge, _adj._ pleasant, i. i. _pr._ ; delicate, iii. . lykly, _adj._ similar, ii. . lynde, _s. dat._ lime-tree, ix. . lynes, _s. pl._ lines, i. iii. . . see the note, p. . lynx, _s._ lynx, i. ii. . . lyoun, _s._ lion, ii. . lyre, _s._ complexion, hue, xvii. . lyte, _s._ little, xviii. ; xx. ; _adv._ viii. . lyther, _adj._ vicious, xviii. . lyvelode, _s._ livelihood, i. iii. . ; lyvelod, ii. . maculait, _adj._ stained, xvii. . mad, _pp._ made, xiii. ; written, i. iii. . . madding, _s._ madness, v. . maist, _adv._ most, xvii. . maistres, _s._ mistress, i. iii. . . maistrye, _s._ mastery, power, i. i. . ; miracle, ii. . make, _s._ companion, v. ; ix. ; xviii. . makers, _s. pl._ poets, i. iii. . . making, _s._ composition of poetry, ix. ; poem, ii. . malapert, _adj._ malapert, xxiv. . male, _s._ bag, ii. . male-bouche, _s._ scandal, viii. ; ix. ; xvi. ; xx. . manace, _s._ threat, ii. . manace, _v._ menace, xvi. . manerlesse, _adj._ devoid of good manners, rude, xvi. . manlich, _adj._ manly, i. ii. . . manna, _s._ manna, i. iii. . ; ii. . maple, _s._ maple-tree, xviii. . marchandry, _s._ trade, ii. . marcial, _adj._ warlike, i. i. . . margarettes, _s. pl._ daisies, xxi. . margarit-perle, _s._ pearl, i. iii. . ; _pl._ i. iii. . . marjolain, _s._ marjoram, xxi. . market-beters, _s. pl._ haunters of the market, ii. . mars, i.e. ordeal by combat, i. i. . . martyr, _s._ martyr, i. i. . ; _pl._ martres, v. ; xxiv. . martyre, _ger._ to be martyred, iv. ; martred, _pp._ martyred, full of martyrdom, i. ii. . . mase, _s._ maze, xxi. , . mased, _pp._ amazed, confused, i. i. . ; perplexed, xxi. . masonry, masonry, _s._ xxi. . masseday, _s._ day when mass is said, i. i. . . mast, _s._ mast (of a ship), xxiv. . maste, _s._ mast fallen from trees, beech-mast, i. i. . . mate, _adj._ depressed, xvi. . mated, _pp._ overcome, i. i. . . matens, _s. pl._ matins, xxiv. . mater, _s._ matter, i. iii. . . maugrÈ, _prep._ in spite of, ii. ; v. ; _m. me_, in spite of myself, unwillingly, i. iii. . . maugrÈ, _s._ ill will, xvi. ; maugree, dislike, v. ; displeasure, i. ii. . . maundËments, _s. pl._ commandments, ii. . mavis, _s._ thrush, xvii. ; xxiv. . may, _pr. s._ can (do a thing), i. ii. . . mayntenaunce, _s._ abetting, ii. . maynteynours, _s. pl._ maintainers, abettors, ii. , . mayre, _s._ mayor, i. ii. . . maysterfully, _adv._ tyrannously, ii. . maysters, _s. pl._ masters, ii. . maystreship, _s._ sovereignty, i. ii. . ; rank of a master, ii. . maystresse, _s._ mistress, i. i. . . maystry, _s._ mastery, ii. ; superior powers, i. ii. . . (_that wolden m. me have_, who wished me to have authority.) me, _indef. pron._ one, i. i. _pr._ ; i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; i. iii. . ; xxi. . mede, _s._ reward, ii. . meded, _pp._ rewarded, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . medefully, _adv._ deservedly, i. iii. . . medlest, _pr. s._ takest part, interferest, i. i. . ; _pp._ mingled, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . ; xvi. . medle-tree, _s._ medlar, xx. , . medlinge, _pres. pt._ meddling, i. ii. . ; mixture, i. ii. . ; interference, i. i. . . meedful, _adj._ meritorious, iii. . mees, _s. pl._ dwellings, houses, v. . o.f. _mes_, _meis_, _meix_, 'ferme ... habitation, démeure'; godefroy. meid, _s._ reward, recompense, xvii. . melancolious, _adj._ melancholy, xx. . meldrop, _s._ hanging drop of mucus, xvii. . meles, _s. pl._ meals, ii. . mell, _v._ meddle, ii. . memorial, _s._ memory, xxiv. . memour, _s._ memory, xvii. . mene, _adj._ intermediate, i. ii. . ; middle, xxiv. . mene, _s._ mean, intermediate, iii. ; mean, i. iii. . ; middle course, iii. ; mediator, i. ii. . ; method, way, i. i. _pr._ ; moderation (?), i. ii. . . mening, _s._ intention, xvi. ; _pl._ i. i. . . merchande, _s._ (_perhaps_) merchants' meeting, vii. (_title_). merciable, _adj._ merciful, ii. ; xxii. ; xxiv. . merciably, _adv._ mercifully, i. iii. . . merle, _s._ blackbird, xvii. . mervayl, _s._ marvel, xxi. . mery, _adj._ pleasant, i. ii. . . mes, _s._ dish, course of meats, xvi. . meschauncË, _s._ misfortune, vii. . mescreaunce, _s._ unbelief, vi. . mesurabelly, _adv._ with moderation, xvi. . mesurable, _adj._ moderate, v. . mesure, _imp. s._ moderate, x. . mete-borde, _s._ dining-table, i. ii. . . metely, _adj._ moderate, i.e. of middle height, xxi. . metricians, _s. pl._ men skilled in metre, xxiv. . mevable, _adj._ moveable; i.e. (more) moveable, xiv. . meve, _ger._ to move, i. i. . ; _pr. s._ moves, v. ; _ pt. pl._ discussed, i. iii. . . mevinges, _s. pl._ motions, i. ii. . . meward; _to m._, towards me, i. ii. . . mewe, _s._ mew, coop; _in mewe_, under restraint, xvi. . mewet, _adj._ mute; _in m._, in a tone unheard, to myself, xxiv. . meynall, _adj._ belonging to their household, domestic, ii. . see note, p. . meynt, _pp._ mingled, viii. . meyny, _s._ household, i. ii. . ; crowd, i. i. . ; followers, i. i. . . michel, _adv._ much, v. . middis, _s._ midst, xvii. . midle-erth, _s._ the earth, i. iii. . . milk-whyt, _adj._ milk-white, xxiv. . minde, _s._ remembrance, xi. . ming, _imp. s._ mix, xvii. ; _pp._ . mirour, _s._ mirror, v. . mirthed, _pp._ cheered, i. ii. . . mis, _adj._ wrong, i. ii. . ; ii. ; viii. ; xxii. ; _pl._ things that are wrong, i. ii. . . miscary, _v._ go astray, fail, i. ii. . ; _pp._ gone astray, i. ii. . . mischaunce, _s._ a curse, ill luck, ii. ; iii. . mischese, _ pr. pl._ choose amiss, vii. . mischeves, _s._ diseases, x. . misclepinge, _s._ misnaming, i. i. . . miscorden, _pr. pl._ disagree, i. ii. . . miscreants, _s. pl._ unbelievers, iv. . misese, _s._ lack of ease, misery, i. ii. . . misesy, _adj._ uneasy, i. i. . . misglosed, _pp._ misinterpreted, i. ii. . . misgo, _pp._ gone astray, ii. . misgoing, _s._ error, i. ii. . . mishapped, _pp._ come to misfortune, v. . mispend, _v._ misspend, ii. . misplesaunce, _s._ displeasure, grief, i. i. . . misqueme, _pr. s. subj._ displease, ii. . mis-seching, _s._ seeking amiss, i. ii. . . misse-mening, _adj._ ill-intentioned, i. ii. . . mister, _s._ occupation, handicraft; _m. folk_, craftsmen, xxiv. . mistihede, _s._ mistiness, darkness, xxii. . misturnen, _v._ overturn, change the fortunes of, i. i. . ; _pp._ altered amiss, i. ii. . ; misdirected, i. ii. . . misty, _adj._ mystic, mysterious, x. . misusing, _s._ misuse, vii. . miswent, _pp._ gone astray, i. ii. . . mo, _adv._ besides, x. ; xvi. ; _adj._ others, i. i. . ; others besides, xvi. , ; xxi. . moche-folde, _adj._ manifold, i. i. . . mochel, _adj._ much, xviii. . moder, _s._ mother, i. iii. . . modify, _ger._ to adjudge, appoint, specify, xvii. . moeble, _s._ (moveable) property, wealth, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; _pl._ i. i. . . mokel, _adv._ much, i. ii. . . mokken, _ger._ to mock, xxiv. . molles, _s. pl._ birds of the kite or buzzard family (see the context); ii. . (the exact sense is not known.) mone, _s._ moon, ii. . mone, _s._ moan, lament, i. iii. . ; x. ; xi. . moned, _pp._ bemoaned, i. i. . . moneth, _s._ month, i. ii. . ; xiii. . moo, _adj._ more numerous, iii. . moon, _s._ moan, lament, xvi. . moot, _pr. s._ must, v. . more, _adj._ greater, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; i. iii. . ; mores, _adj. gen._; _that mores_, of that greater thing, i. ii. . . morning, _s._ mourning, xxiv. . morow-day, _s._ morn, xxiv. . morowning, _s._ morning, viii. . mote, _pr. s. subj._ may, ii. ; v. . motlË, _s._ motley, viii. . mouche, _pr. pl._ sneak about, ii. . moule, _v._ go mouldy, be putrid, ii. ; _pp._ gone mouldy, i. ii. . . moun, _ pr. pl._ can, are able to, i. i. . . mountenance, _s._ amount, period, i. i. . . moustre, _s._ example, pattern, i. ii. . . mow, _pr. pl._ may, v. ; mowe, _ pr. pl._ can, iii. ; _pr. pl._ i. ii. . . mowlit, _adj._ mouldy, xvii. . mufe, _ger._ to move, provoke, xvii. . murthed, _pt. s._ cheered, i. i. . . muse, _v._ study, meditate, v. ; _pt. s._ considered, ii. . muskle, _s._ mussel (shell-fish), i. ii. . ; _pl._ i. iii. . . mynd, _s._ memory, ii. ; remembrance, i. i. . . myrre, _s._ myrrh, viii. . mystere, _s._ ministry, ii. . mystry, _s._ mystery, ii. . myte, _s._ mite, i. ii. . . nad, _pt. s._ had not, v. . naked, _pt. s._ deprived, v. . nale, _s._; _at the nale_ = _at then ale_, at the ale-house, ii. . name-cleping, _s._ naming, i. iii. . . nameliche, _adv._ especially, i. iii. . ; namely, i. i. . ; iii. ; v. ; viii. . namore, no more, v. . nar, _adv._ nearer, xvii. . nat-for-than, _adv._ nevertheless, i. iii. . . naught, _adj._ wicked, xviii. ; naughty, i. ii. . . nay, _s._ denial, xviii. ; denying, xxi. , . nayed, _pp._ said no, i. i. . . nebule, _s._ mist, x. . nede, _s._ need, v. . nedes, _adv._ of necessity, i. iii. . . nedest, _ pr. s._ art needy, i. ii. . . nedy, _adj._ needy, ii. . needly, _adv._ needs, xxiv. . neer, _adv._ nearer, xvi. , . neet, _s. pl._ neat cattle, i. ii. . . neighe, _v._ approach, i. i. . ; _pr. s._ approaches, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . ; neigh, _pr. s. imp._ may it come near to, i. iii. . . neist, _adj._ nearest, xvii. . neld, _s._ needle, ii. ; xiii. . ne-moublie-mies, _s. pl._ forget-me-nots, xxi. . see note, p. . nempne, _v._ name, mention, i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; _ pr. s._ i. iii. . ; _ pt. s._ didst name, i. ii. . ; _pp._ i. i. . . ner, _adv._ nearer, xxiv. ; nere, xxiv. , ; nearly (i.e. it touched her very nearly), xxi. . nere, _adv._ never, i. i. . ; xxiv. . nere, _for_ ne were, were it not (for), xxii. ; _n. it_, were it not, i. i. . . nessh, _adj._ soft, xxiv. . nettil, _s._ nettle, i. i. . . never-the-latter (-later), nevertheless, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; i. ii. . . newe, _adj._; _for the n._, in the new guise, ii. . newefangelnesse, _s._ newfangledness, ix. ; xiii. . next, _adj._ nearest, most intimate, i. i. . . neyghed, _ pt. s._ drew near, i. i. . . nigard, _s._ niggard, xii. ; nigges, _pl._ ii. . nightertale, _s._ night-time, xxiv. , . nil, _pr. pl._ will not, i. i. . ; ii. ; nilt, wilt not, xi. . nist, _ pr. s._ knowest not, ii. . noblerer, _adj._ more noble, i. ii. . . nobles, _s. pl._ coins so called, i. iii. . . a _noble_ was worth _s._ _d._ nobley, _s._ nobility, i. iii. . ; vii. ; nobleness, i. i. . ; xvi. ; excellence, i. ii. . . noght, _adj._ evil, v. . no-kins wyse, lit. 'a way of no kind,' no kind of way, xvi. . nombre, _s._ number, proportion, i. i. . . nombred, _pp._ numbered, estimated, x. . nompere, _s._ umpire, i. i. . . non, none, i.e. not, i. i. . . non-certayn, _s._ uncertainty, i. iii. . . nones; _for the n._, for the occasion, xx. . nonnes, _s. pl._ nuns, xxiv. . nonpower, _s._ weakness, i. ii. . . noot, _ pr. s._ know not, xxiv. . norice, _s._ nurse, vi. . noriture, _s._ nutriment, i. i. . . norture, _s._ good breeding, xxii. . nory, _s._ pupil. i. i. . ; _pl._ i. i. . . not, _ pr. s._ know not, i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; _pr. s._ knows not, xviii. . nothing, _adv._ not at all, in no respect, i. i. . ; xvi. . noughty, _adj._ needy, ii. . novelleries, _s. pl._ novelties, i. ii. . . now-a-dayes, _adv._ now-a-days, vii. . noy, _ pr. pl._ annoy, xvi. . nuisaunce, _s._ annoyance, vi. . nuncupacion, _s._ naming, i. i. . . nureis, _s._ nurse, nourisher, xvii. , . nutte, _s._ nut, i. i. . . nyce, _adj._ foolish, v. ; vii. ; xviii. ; nyse, i. i. . . nycetÈ, _s._ folly, i. iii. . . nye-bore, _s._ neighbour, i. ii. . . o, _adj._ one and the same, xi. . obediencer, _adj._ under obedience, i. iii. . . obeysaunce, _s._ obedience, xxiv. . obeysaunt, _adj._ obedient, ii. . obumbred, _pp._ overshadowed, x. . see note, p. . occian, _s._ ocean, xiv. . occupacioun, _s._ occupation, employment, xx. . occupyer, _s._ owner, user, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . ochane, _s._ och hone! cry of woe, xvii. . ocy, _s._ french _oci_, an exclamation imitating the cry of a nightingale, xviii. , , . see note. of, _prep._ for (with _biseche_), xix. ; during, xviii. , ; xx. . of-drow, _pt. s._ drew off, ii. . offend, _pp._ offended, ii. . office, _s._ duty, xvi. . offrend, _s._ offering, ii. . of-new, _adv._ anew, xx. . oftsiss, _adv._ oftentimes, xxvi. ; -syis, xvii. . okes, _s. pl._ oaks, i. iii. . . on, _prep._ against, i. ii. . . onbelde, _ger._ to build on, x. . on-brede, _adv._ abroad, viii. . onbyde, _ger._ to abide, i. iii. . ; _v._ i. iii. . ; remain, i. iii. . ; _ pr. s._ await, i. iii. . . one, _pr. pl._ unite, i. iii. . ; _pp._ joined together, i. ii. . . onheed, _s._ unity, i. iii. . ; onhed, i. ii. . . on-loft, _adv._ aloft, upwards, xxiv. . on-lyve, _adv._ alive, ii. ; iv. ; viii. ; xiv. ; xviii. ; xxiv. . ony, _pron._ any, iii. ; xvii. . oo, one, v. , . oo-fold, _adj._ simple, lit. one-fold, xiii. . cf. lat. _sim-plex_. ook, _s._ oak, viii. . oon, one, any one, xx. ; oon and oon, severally, xx. . oonhed, _s._ unity, i. iii. . . ope, _adj._ open, xxiv. ; open, displayed, i. ii. . ; _as s._ a thing open, ii. . or, _conj._ ere, iv. ; vii. ; or that, before, xvi. . orature, _s._ oratory, xvii. . ordenaunce, _s._ arrangement, xxi. . see ordinaunce. orders, _s. pl._ orders (of friars), iii. . ordinable, _adj._ adjustable, brought into relation with, i. ii. . . ordinaunce, _s._ order, xxi. ; (apparently) self-control, decision, xvi. ; warlike array, xvi. ; orderly disposition, i. ii. . ; a row, xxi. . orient, _adj._ (_as applied to gems_), of prime excellence, xx. (see note); xxi. ; xxiv. . orizont, _s._ horizon, viii. . ornat, _adj._ ornate, xxiv. . otherwhile, _adv._ sometimes, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; v. . otherwysed, _pp._ changed, altered, i. ii. . . ouches, _s._ settings for jewels, ii. , . ourfret, _pp._ covered over, xvii. . ourquhelmit, _pt. pl._ overwhelmed, covered, xvii. . ourspred, _pp._ overspread, marked all over, xvii. . out-bringe, _v._ educe, i. ii. . . outforth, _adv._ externally, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . out-helpes, _s. pl._ external aids, i. ii. . . outher, _conj._ either, v. . outherwhile, _adv._ sometimes, i. iii. . . outrage, _s._ violent act, ix. ; extravagance of conduct, xv. _a._ . outrage, _ger._ to banish, drive out, vii. . outragiousnesse, _s._ extravagance, ii. . outrance, _s._ excessive injury, defeat, vi. . out-throwe, _pp._ thrown out, i. ii. . . outwaill, _s._ outcast, xvii. . see note. out-waye, out of the way, i. i. . . (but read _out-waye-going_ as one word, meaning deviation; see note to bk. iii. . ; p. .) out-waye-going, _s._ deviation, error, i. ii. . . out-wreste, _v._ force out, viii. . over, _prep._ besides, i. i. _pr._ . over-al, _adv._ everywhere, i. i. . ; xii. . overcharge, _ger._ to overburden, iii. . overchaunginges, _s._ changes, i. iii. . . overcoom, _ pt. s._ didst overcome, v. . overlede, _pr. pl._ oppress, treat cruelly, v. ; overwhelm, xxii. . overleyn, _pp._ covered, i. iii. . . overloke, _ger._ to oversee, i. i. . . overlokers, _s. pl._ overseers, i. i. . ; i. i. . . over-rede, _adj._ too red, xxiv. . oversee, _pr. pl._ are overseers of, ii. . overshake, _v._ pass away, xvi. . oversprad, _pp._ overspread, viii. . overthrowe, _v._ tumble over, i. ii. . . overthwartly, _adv._ contrarily, adversely, i. i. . ; perversely, i. iii. . . overtourning, _pres. pt._ overwhelming, i. i. . . over-whelmed, _pt. s._ overturned, i. ii. . . overwhelminges, _s. pl._ circuits overhead, i. iii. . . ow, _pr. s._ ought, ii. ; oweth, _pr. s._ i. iii. . ; ought (to be), i. ii. . ; owe, _pr. pl._ i. iii. . ; owande, _pres. pt._ due, i. ii. . . oyntmentes, _s. pl._ ointments, i. iii. . . paas, _s._ pace, xvi. . packe, _s._ pack, bundle of garments, i. ii. . ; pak, v. . padde, _s._ frog, toad, i. iii. . . palasy-yuel, _s._ paralysis, i. iii. . . palestre, _s._ wrestling match, struggle, x. . paleys, _s._ palace, v. . palfray, _s._ horse (for a lady), xx. . pall, _s._ fine cloth, ii. , . palled, _pp._ rendered vapid, as stale liquor, x. ; enfeebled, vii. . palme, _s._ palm-branch, xxix. . pamflet, _s._ pamphlet, i. iii. . . pampired, _pp._ pampered, xxiv. . pane, _s._ pain, xvii. ; panis, _pl._ . pane, _s._ plot of ground, bed for flowers, xvii. ; pannes, _s. pl._ clothes, i. ii. . . see the note. (a better spelling is _panes_.) papinjay, _s._ parrot, used merely in scorn, xviii. . parcel, _s._ part, portion, i. i. . ; _as adv._ in part, viii. . pardÈ, pardieu, xx. ; xxi. . pardurable, _adj._ everlasting, i. ii. . . parfytË, _adj. fem._ perfect, iv. . parishens, _s. pl._ parishioners, ii. ; iii. . partable, _adj._ divisible, i. ii. . . parted, _pt. s._ departed, xvi. . party, _s._ part, i. ii. . ; xxiv. ; _pl._ _on some p._, in some respects, xvi. ; partie, _adv._ partly, xxiv. . passe, _ger._ to surpass, excel, i. ii. . ; _v._ ii. ; xx. ; pas, _v._ pass beyond, xvi. ; _pr. s._ ix. ; _pr. pl._ iii. ; _pp._ past away, long ago dead, i. i. _pr._ . passif, _adj._ passive (man), i. i. . ; (thing), i. ii. . . passing, _adj._ surpassing, great, severe, i. i. _pr._ . passinge, _prep._ surpassing, beyond, i. i. _pr._ . passingly, _adv._ surpassingly, xx. . passive, _s._ subject, i. ii. . . pastour, _s._ shepherd, pastor, ii. . patens, _s. pl._ pattens, xxiv. . patron, _s._ patron, founder, iii. . pausacioun, _s._ waiting, repose, x. . pavilioun, _s._ tent, x. . pay, _s._ satisfaction; _her to pay_, for a satisfaction to her, viii. . payËn, _adj._ pagan, iv. ; _s. pl._ iv. . paynims, _pl. adj._ pagan, i. ii. . ; _s. pl._ i. ii. . . paynture, _s._ painting, i. ii. . . pecok, _s._ peacock, xxiv. . pees, _s._ peace, iv. . pees, _s._ pea, i. i. . ; peese, i. ii. . . peirry, _s._ perry, xvii. . peise, _ger._ to weigh, consider, xxiv. ; _pp._ xiii. . peitrel, _s._ poitrel, breast-strap (of a horse), xx. . pele, _ pr. s._ appeal, xvi. . pelure, _s._ fur, i. ii. . ; ii. . pend, _pp._ penned, ii. . penny, _s._ money, fee, ii. . pensees, _s. pl._ pansies, xxi. . pensifheed, _s._ pensiveness, viii. . pensivenes, _s._ sadness, xvii. . penuritie, _s._ penury, xvii. . peny, _s._ money, iii. . peragall, _s._ equal, ii. . peraunter, _adv._ perhaps, i. ii. . . percas, _adv._ perchance, xxiv. . perce, _v._ pierce, x. . perdoned, _pp._ pardoned, xxiv. . perdurable, _adj._ everlasting, i. ii. . ; iv. . pere, _s._ peer, ii. ; _pl._ xviii. . peregal, _adj._ fully equal, xii. . pereles, _adj._ peerless, viii. . perfiter, _adj._ more perfect, iii. . perfitest, _adj._ most perfect, iii. . perrey, _s._ jewellery, ii. . persaunt, _adj._ piercing, viii. , ; xxiv. . perse, _pr. pl._ pierce, xxiv. . persÉver, _v._ persevere, ix. . personage, _s._ dignity, title, ii. , ; titles, ii. . see note to ii. , p. . personer, _s._ a participant, i. ii. . . see the note. perte, _adj._ open, evident, i. iii. . . pertinacie, _s._ obstinacy, i. ii. . . perturbaunce, _s._ distress, viii. . pese, _s._ pea, ii. . peynture, _s._ painting, description, i. i. . . peyreth, _pr. s._ impairs, xvi. . (short for _apeyreth_.) peyse, _v._ weigh, ponder, iv. ; _pr. pl._ i. ii. . . phane, _s._ vane, weathercock, i. ii. . . phenix, _s._ phoenix, ii. . philbert, _s._ filbert, viii. . piler, _s._ pillar, vi. ; _pl._ viii. . pilgrimaged, _ pt. s._ made a pilgrimage, i. i. _pr._ . pill, _ger._ to pillage, rob, ii. ; iii. ; _pp._ iii. . pinche at, _ger._ to find fault with, xiii. . piscyne, _s._ fish-pool, x. . pitous, _adj._ merciful, iv. ; pitousë, _fem._ piteous, v. . pittË, _s._ pit, well, viii. . plain, _adj._ open, true, xiii. . plat, _adv._ flatly, plainly, ii. . plate, _s._ coin, i. i. . . playing-fere, _s._ playmate, ii. . playn, _s._ plain, viii. . playn, _adj._ flat, free from mountains, xvi. . playne, _v._ complain, i. i. . ; lament, ix. . playning, _adj._ complaining, sad, xxi. . playnte, _s._ complaint, viii. . playted, _adj._ pleated, involved, i. i. . . pledours, _s._ pleaders, ii. . plee, _s._ plea, pleading, i. ii. . . plentuously, _adv._ fully, i. iii. . . plesandly, _adv._ pleasantly, xvii. . plesaunce, _s._ pleasure, xvi. . plesyr, _s._ pleasure, xx. . pleyn, _ pr. s. refl._ complain, xvi. ; _pp._ xviii. . plight, _pp._ folded, xxiv. . plited, _pp._ folded, xxiv. . plites, _s. pl._ folds, i. iii. . . plot, _s._ plot, bed (of flowers), xx. . plow, _s._ plough, ii. . pluckinge, _s._ inducement, i. ii. . . ply, _s._ plight, xvii. . see note. plyte, _s._ condition, state (lit. fold), i. ii. . ; i. ii. . ; iv. . poesies, _s. pl._ poems, songs, i. iii. . . poesye-mater, _s._ composition, i. i. _pr._ . pointe; _in p. to_, ready to, i. i. . . pokes, _s. pl._ pockets, ii. . poleist, _pp._ polished, xvii. . pome, _s._ apple; _punical p._, punic apple, i.e. pomegranate, x. . pomelles, _s. pl._ pommels, balls, xxi. . popinjay, _s._ parrot, x. ; xxiv. . port, _s._ demeanour, i. i. . ; viii. ; xxi. . portred, _pp._ pourtrayed, ii. . possed, _pp._ pushed about, viii. . post, _s._ support, xxiv. . posterioritÈ, _s._ being behind, i. iii. . . pothecairis, _s. pl._ apothecaries, xvii. . povert, _s._ poverty, ii. . povre, _adj._ poor, vii. ; xxi. . powdering, _s._ sprinkling (with bright ornaments), xxi. . poynte; _in p. to_, ready to, i. i. _pr._ ; _pl._ (_perhaps_) stakes, xvi. . see note, p. . praktik, _s._ practice, xvii. . prang, _s._ pang, xxiv. . praunce, _v._ prance about, i. ii. . . pray, _s._ prey, ii. . prays, _ger._ to praise, to be worthy of praise, xvi. . precelling, _pres. pt._ excelling, xvii. . preef, _s._ proof, i. ii. . ; prefe, xvi. . prees, _s._ press, throng, crowd, xx. ; xxi. ; _putten me in p._, force me, i. i. _pr._ . pregnant, _adj._ pregnant, full, comprehensive, xvii. . preif, _imp. pl._ prove, make trial, xvii. . prejudyce, _s._ harm, xvi. . prene, _s._ brooch, xvii. . prerogatyf, _s._ prerogative, first claim, x. . prest, _adj._ ready, ii. . pretende, _pr. pl._ tend to advance, i. i. . . preterit, _adj._ preterite, gone by, i. iii. . . pretily, _adv._ prettily, xx. . prety, _adj._ pretty, xxiv. . prevayl, _v._ benefit, be of service to, help, xvi. . preve, _s._ proof, xvi. . preven, _ger._ to prove, to test, i. i. . ; _v._ v. ; _pr. s._ xvi. ; _pp._ xvi. . prevy nor apert, i.e. in no respect, xvi. . pricke, _s._ dot, point, i. i. . ; moment, i. i. . . prime face, first look; _at the p. f._, prim[=a] facie, i. i. . . principalitÈ, _s._ rule, i. i. . ; -altè, dominion, i. ii. . . print, _s._ impression, xvi. . printed, _pp._ imprinted, i. ii. . . prise, _s._ prize, i. i. . . prisonment, _s._ imprisonment, i. ii. . . probatyk, _adj._ sheep-cleansing, x. . see note, p. . processe, _s._ work, business, xvi. . procuratour, _s._ proctor, ii. . procuren, _pr. pl._ procure, suborn, v. . (accented on the _o_.) professe, _s._ the professed member of a religious order, i. iii. . . professed, _pp._ professed as members, iii. ; devoted, viii. . proper, _adj._ own, i. i. . ; propre, peculiar, i. ii. . . proper, _s._ personal property, iii. . propinquitÈ, _s._ nearness of kin, i. ii. . . proporcions, _s. pl._ suppositions, i. iii. . . (_probably for_ propositions.) propyne, _imp. s._ give to drink, afford, x. . protectrice, _s._ protectrix, x. . prove, _s._ proof, i. iii. . . proved, _pp._ approved, viii. . provendre, _s._ prebend, i. ii. . . proyned, _pt. pl._ preened, trimmed, xviii. . prunith, _pr. s. refl._ preens himself, trims himself, xxiv. . pryded, _pp._ made proud, iv. . pryen, _v._ pry (about), xx. . prymerose, _s._ primrose, xxiv. . pryse, _s._ value, x. ; prys, glory, v. . psauter, _s._ psalter, i. ii. . . pucelle, _s._ maiden, x. . puissance, _s._ power, xii. . pulcritude, _s._ beauty, xxiv. . pull, _ger._ to pluck, tear, ii. . pungitive, _adj._ pungent, i.e. ready to sting, xvii. . punical, _adj._ punic, x. . see pome. punisshËment, _s._ punishment, v. ; _pl._ ii. . purchace, _s._ earning (it), obtaining (it), xvi. ; purchas, bargain, xvi. ; purchase, xxviii. . purchace, _imp. s._ purchase, procure, obtain, iv. ; _ pr. s. subj._ xvi. . purfeling, _s._ edging, ornamenting an edge, xxi. . purfyl, _s._ edge (of her sleeve), xxi. , ; _pl._ xx. . purfyled, _pp._ ornamented at the edge, xx. . purgacioun, _s._ purgation, a clearing of a false charge, ii. . purpose, _pr. s. subj._ intend, v. . purse, _ger._ to put in their purse, ii. . pursevauntes, _s. pl._ pursuivants, xx. . purtreyture, _s._ drawing, i. i. _pr._ ; _pl._ i. ii. . . purvey, _ger._ to provide, xx. ; _v._ xxiv. ; _pp._ i. ii. . ; xvi. ; destined, i. i. . . purveyaunce, _s._ providence, disposal, i. i. . ; iv. ; viii. ; ix. ; provision, xvi. . purveyour, _s._ purveyor, xxi. . putrye, _s._ whoredom, ii. . puttockes, _s. pl._ kites, ii. . (lit. poult(ry)-hawks.) pye, _s._ magpie, ii. ; xxiv. . pykes, _s. pl._ peaks, ii. . pyles, _s. pl._ piles, strong stakes, i. ii. . . pyment, _s._ piment, wine mixed with honey and spices, ii. . pynande, _pres. pt._ wearisome, i. i. . ; pynd, _pp._ pined, tortured, ii. . pyne, _s._ pain, xviii. ; punishment, v. . pyne, _s._ pine, viii. ; -tree, x. . pype, _v._ pipe, whistle, i. iii. . . quair, _s._ book (lit. quire), xvii. ; quayre, viii. . quake, _v._ quake, viii. . quarele, _s._ complaint, iv. . quarters, _s. pl._ quarters (measures so called), i. iii. . . quayntly, _adv._ curiously, ii. . queme, _s._; _to qu._, to your pleasure, vii. . queme, _v._ please, v. . quere, _s._ choir, xxiv. . queynt, _pp._ quenched, i. ii. . ; ii. ; queint, xxiv. . queynte, _adj._ curious, xviii. ; particular, ii. ; queinte, pretty, xiii. . queyntyse, _s._ finery, ornaments, ii. ; queyntyses, contrivances, i. i. . . quhair, _adv._ where, xvii. . quhais, _pron._ whose, of which, xvii. . quhen, _adv._ when, xvii. . quhetting, _pres. pt._ whetting, xvii. . quhilk, _pron._ which, xvii. . quhill, _adv._ until, xvii. , . quhisling, _pres. pt._ whistling, xvii. . quhyl, _adv._ sometimes, xvii. . quhytly, _adj._ whitish, xvii. . quik, _adj._ alive, ix. ; quicke, living, iii. . quyte, _v._ requite, viii. ; repay, iv. ; _ger._ to requite, xv. _c._ ; to redeem, ix. ; quitte, _pt. s._ requited, v. ; _pt. pl._ v. . quytinge, _s._ requital, i. iii. . , . race, _pr. s. subj._ pluck, xxiv. . raddest, _ pt. s._ readest, hast thou read, i. i. . ; rad, _pp._ read, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; xxi. . rage, _adj._ raging, vii. . raket, _s._ the game of rackets, i. i. . . ramage, _adj._ wild, i. i. . . rancour, _s._ hatred, i. ii. . ; _pl._ heartburnings, i. ii. . . rank, _adj._ rank, overgrown, ii. . rasours, _s. pl._ razors, xiv. . rathe, _adv._ soon, i. ii. . ; _to r._, too soon, i. ii. . ; rather, _comp._ xviii. ; rathest, _superl._ i. i. . . raughte, _ pt. s._ reached down, viii. . raunsoun, _s._ ransom, xx. . rave, _ger._ to rave, be mad, xvi. . raveynous, _adj._ ravenous, i. ii. . . ravinour, _s._ gluttonous destroyer, ii. ; ravinere, spoiler, ii. . ravins, _s. pl._ ravens, ii. . ravisshed, _pp._ torn away, i. ii. . . rawk, _adj._ hoarse, xvii. . lat. _raucus_. rayed, _pp._ arrayed, xxiv. . rayle, _s._ rail, bar, xxi. . see note. rËalmes, _s. pl._ kingdoms, i. ii. . , . rebÉl, _adj._ rebellious, xvi. . recche, _v._ reck, care, i. iii. . ; iii. ; _pr. s. subj._ i. ii. . ; _pr. s._ i. iii. . . receyt, _s._ receipt, receiving, xvi. . rechace, _s._ ransom, xvi. . (an erroneous form, meant to answer to f. _rachat_; see note.) recheless, _adj._ reckless, v. . reclaymed, _pp._ reclaimed (as a hawk), xvi. . recomforte, _ger._ to comfort anew, viii. . recorde, _s._ example, viii. . recover, _s._ recovery, i. i. . ; recour, i. i. . ; recure, xvii. ; remedy, viii. . recured, _pp._ recovered, viii. . redbrest, _s._ redbreast, ix. . rede, _s._ advice, ii. . rede, _ pr. s._ advise, vii. ; xxi. ; red, _pp._ read, ii. . redresse, _s._ redresser, xxiv. . reed, _adj._ red, i. i. . . refrayne, _v._ restrain, xvi. ; hold back, viii. . refresshments, _s. pl._ aids, i. iii. . . refrete, _s._ burden (of a song), i. iii. . . see halliwell. refuse, _s._ denial, rejection, xvi. , ; refus, denial, xvi. . refut, _s._ refuge, xi. ; shelter, xvi. ; xxiv. . regall, _adj. as s._ chief, ii. . regalye, _s._ sovereignty, royalty, ix. ; royal rank, iv. . regester, _imp. s._ register, note, xxiv. . regnes, _s. pl._ kingdoms, iv. . regrait, _s._ complaint, xvii. . reguler, _s._ full member of a religious order, i. iii. . . rehersayle, _s._ rehearsal, i. iii. . . reid, _adj._ red, xvii. . reid, _s._ redness, xvii. . reignatif, _adj._ governing, i. ii. . . a coined word. rejoice, _ger._ to enjoy, xvi. ; _pp._ gained, xvi. . rejoyse, _s._ joy, enjoyment, xxiv. . rekes, _s. pl._ ricks, i. i. _pr._ . relees, _s._ release, viii. ; réles, viii. . relesse, _v._ relax, xxiv. . relief, _s._ remnant, remnants, orts, i. i. _pr._ . f. _relief_. religiositee, _s._ religiousness, piety, xxiv. . religioun, _s._ a life as of one of a religious order, ii. ; xxiv. . relyed, _pt. s._ united, i. ii. . . remedye, _s._ remedy (of love), v. . remeid, _s._ remedy, xvii. . remeid, _v._ remedy, cure, xvii. . remËnant, _s._ rest, v. . remes, _s. pl._ realms, v. ; x. . remewe, _v._ move away, change, xvi. ; _ger._ to remove, xii. ; remuf, xvii. . remissailes, _s. pl._ left fragments, scraps, leavings, i. i. _pr._ . renegates, _s. pl._ recreants, renegades, i. ii. . . reney, _ger._ to deny, renounce, xxiv. . renne, _ger._ to run, i. i. . ; _pr. pl._ x. ; _pres. pt._ running, variable, viii. . renomÈ, _s._ renown, fame, i. ii. . ; xi. . renommed, _pp._ renowned, xvi. . renovel, _ger._ to spring anew, i. ii. . . rent, _s._ income, ii. . renter, _s._ landlord, i. i. . . rentest, _ pt. s._ didst rend, i. i. . . renyant, _s._ renegade, i. i. . . reparatryce, _s._ restorer, v. . repele, _v._ recall, repeal, xvi. . repent, _s._ repentance, xxiv. . repentaunt, _adj._ repentant, i. ii. . . reply, _ger._ to turn back, recall, unsay, i. i. . . repreef, _s._ reproof, v. ; xviii. . reprende, _v._ reprehend, ii. . representative, _adj._ capable of representing, i. ii. . . reprevable, _adj._ reprehensible, v. ; xvi. . repudy, _s._ divorce, xvii. . repugnaunce, _s._ opposition, contrariety, i. iii. . . repugnaunt, _adj._ opposite, contrary, i. iii. . . repugneth, _pr. s._ opposes, i. iii. . requestË, _s._ request (trisyllabic), iv. (not _request_, as in the text); _withoute r._, unintentionally, xvi. . resceyt, _s._ receptacle, viii. . rescowe, _ger._ to rescue, xviii. ; _v._ xvi. ; _pp._ i. i. . . resonables, _s. pl._ reasonable beings, i. ii. . . resonablich, _adj._ reasonable, i. ii. . . resonfully, _adv._ reasonably, i. iii. . . resort, _s._ place of resort, xxii. . resowning, _pres. pt._ resounding, sounding, ix. . respireth, _pr. s._ breathes again, comes up to breathe, i. i. . . responsaill, _s._ response, xvii. . respyte, _ger._ to respite, pardon, viii. . ressoun, _s._ reason; hence, sentence, declaration, xvii. . restinge-whyles, _s. pl._ times of rest, i. i. . . rethoricien, _s._ rhetorician, xxix. . rethorike, _s._ rhetoric, i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; _r. wise_, manner of rhetoric, i. ii. . . rethory, _s._ rhetoric, xvii. . retour, _s._ return, x. ; xvii. . retour, _v._ return, xvii. ; returnith, _pr. s._ sends back, xxiv. . reule, _s._ rule, order, iv. ; reull, xvii. . reve, _v._ tear away, remove, i. ii. . ; _ pr. s._ xxiv. . revers, _adj._ reverse, xxiv. ; opposite, i. iii. . , . revers, _s._ reverse, opposite, contrary, xii. ; xxiv. . reversest, _pr. s._ goest in the opposite direction, i. iii. . . reversinge, _s._ retrogradation, i. iii. . . revolven, _v._ turn round, exercise, i. i. . . revolving, _s._ revolution, i. ii. . . rewarde, _v._ reward, iii. . reweth, _imp. pl._ have mercy, xi. . reyne, _s._ reign, viii. . reyninge, _pres. pt._ raining, i. i. . . reyve, _v._ reave, take away, xxiv. ; bereave, xxiv. ; _ger._ to rob, xxiv. . ribaud, _adj._ ribald, xxiv. . richen, _v._ enrich, ii. . right, _s._ justice, xvi. . rightful, _adj._ just, i. iii. . . rightwyse, _adj._ righteous, ii. . rightwysed, _pp._ justified, i. i. . . rightwysenesse, _s._ righteous dealing, i. iii. . . rightwysly, _adv._ justly, xvi. . rin, _v._ run; _can rin_, ran, did run, xvii. . rinde, _s._ bark, viii. . ringand, _pres. pt._ ringing, xvii. . rinkis, _s. pl._ men, people, xvii. . rinning, _pres. pt. as adj._ running, talkative, xxiv. . robberye, _s._ robbery, ii. . robin redebrest, xxiv. . rode, _s._ road, common use, v. . rode, _s._ rood, cross, ii. , . rody, _adj._ ruddy, x. ; xxiv. . rois, _s._ rose, xvii. . roising, _pres. pt._ growing rosy, roseate, xvii. . rokes, _s. pl._ rooks, ii. . rokketh, _pr. s._ rocks; _but prob. an error for_ rouketh, i.e. cowers, xxiv. . romen, _v._ roam, xxiv. . ron, _pt. s._ ran, xviii. ; ronne, _pp._ run, i. i. . ; run (its full course), iv. . rong, _pt. s._ rang, viii. ; xx. . rore, _s._ tumult, i. i. . . rosË-flour, _s._ rose, ii. . rosen, _adj._ rosy, viii. . roseth, _pr. s._ grows rosy, grows red, revives, xxii. . see note. rosier, _s._ rose-bush, x. . rote, _s._ rote, xviii. . see note. rought, _pt. s. refl._ recked, i. i. . . roum, _s._ room, space, xxi. . rounde, _ger._ to cut all round, xiii. . roundel, _s._ roundel, xi. ; xx. . rousty, _adj._ rusty, xvii. . rout, _s._ great company, xx. . rowe by rowe, in rows, i. i. . . rowes, _s. pl._ beams, viii. . rowne, _ger._ to whisper, xiii. . rowning, _s._ whispering, i. i. . . rowte, _s._ company, xxiv. . rubifyed, _pp._ reddened, x. . ruik, _s._ rook (bird), xvii. . ruse, _v._ praise, xvii. . russet, _adj._ russet-brown, xxiv. . ryall, _adj._ royal, xxiv. . ryally, _adv._ royally, xxiv. , . ryaltee, _s._ royalty, xxiv. . ryatours, _s. pl._ rioters, riotous persons, ii. . ryder, _s._ rider (on horseback), i. ii. . . ryme, _v._ rime, i. ii. . (see the note, p. ); write verses, ix. . ryping, _adj._ ripening, vii. . ryve, _v._ be rent, viii. . ryve, _ger._ to arrive (at), x. . sa, _adv._ so, xvii. . sacrament, _s._ oath, i. i. . . sad, _adj._ settled, constant, steadfast, firm, xi. ; xvii. ; xxiv. . sadly, _adv._ staidly, in a staid manner, xx. ; firmly, i. i. . ; permanently, xxiv. . safe-conducte, _s._ safe conduct, i. iii. . . saipheron, _adj._ made with saffron, xvii. . sait, _s._ seat, xvii. . sals, _s._ sauce, xvii. . salued, _ pt. s._ saluted, i. i. . ; xx. ; _ pt. pl._ xxi. . salve, _s._ salve, healing, medicament, iv. . samin, _adv._ same, xvii. , . _sans ose ieo dyre_, without saying 'may i dare to mention it,' ii. . saphyre, _s._ sapphire, x. ; xx. ; _pl._ xxi. . sapience, _s._ wisdom, vii. ; xix. ; xxii. ; xxiii. . sarazins, _s. pl._ saracens, i. ii. . ; iv. . sat, _pt. s._ affected, pressed upon, xxi. . sauf, _prep._ save, except, xxi. . sauf, _adj._ safe, iv. ; save, _pl._ iv. . saunz, _prep._ without, xxiv. . sautes, _s. pl._ assaults, viii. . sautry, _s._ psaltery, xx. . savour, _s._ understanding, i. iii. . . sawe, _s._ saying, command, ii. ; teaching, ii. ; sayings, xxviii. . sawin, _pp._ sown, xvii. . scaplerye, _s._ scapulary, iii. . schrewis, _s. pl._ wicked persons, xxvi. . sclaunder, _pr. pl._ slander, iii. ; _ pr. s._ iii. . scochones, _s. pl._ escutcheons, xx. , , . scole-maister, _s._ schoolmaster, oddly used to mean mistress, xvi. . scolers, _s. pl._ scholars, schoolboys, v. . scoles, _s. pl._ schools, xvi. . scorges, _s. pl._ scourges, i. iii. . . scourge, _ger._ to scourge, i. ii. . ; scorged, _pp._ i. iii. . . scribable, _adj._ fit to write on, xiv. . scrippe, _s._ scrip, ii. . scripture, _s._ writing, i. i. . . scriveyn, _s._ scrivener, scribe, xiv. . sechers, _s. pl._ seekers, i. i. _pr._ . secheth, _imp. pl._ seek, xvi. . secree, _adj._ secret, ix. . secte, _s._ order, iii. , , ; sex, i. ii. . . see, _s._ seat, ii. . seemely, _adj._ handsome, xx. . seemliheed, _s._ seemly behaviour, xviii. . seer, _adj._ sere, withered, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . see-sydes, _s. pl._ coasts, i. iii. . . seet, _pt. s._ sat, ii. . seeth, _imp. pl._ see, vii. . see-ward, sea-ward, i. iii. . . seid, _s._ seed, xvii. , . seint, _s._ girdle, xxiv. . seke, _adj. pl._ sick, xvi. ; xviii. ; xxiv. . seke, _ger._ to seek, to learn, xx. (cf. ). seker, _adv._ surely, ii. . sele, _s._ seal, iii. ; _pl._ ii. . self, _adj._ same, xvii. . seliness, _s._ happiness, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . sely, _adj._ happy, i. ii. . ; simple, ix. ; innocent, ii. , . semblable, _adj._ like, i. i. . ; similar, v. . semblaunt, _s._ notice, appearance of taking notice, xvi. ; glance, i. ii. . ; mien, xvi. ; method, i. i. . . semelich, _adj._ seemly, pleasing, i. i. _pr._ . semes, _s. pl._ seams, xx. . sen, _conj._ since, xvii. . send, _pp._ sent, ii. . sene, _adj._ visible, viii. ; xvii. ; xviii. ; obvious, i. ii. . . sene, _ger._ to behold, xx. . senged, _pp._ singed, ii. . sengle, _adj._ single, xiii. . sentement, _s._ feeling, viii. . sentence, _s._ meaning, i. i. _pr._ , . sepulture, _s._ sepulchre, xxiv. . sequele, _s._ following, x. . sere, _adj._ sear, withered, dead (?), i. i. . . cf. '_derke_ opinions.' or _sere_ may mean 'several, particular.' serment, _s._ oath, i. i. . . serpentynes, _adj. pl._ winding, tortuous, i. i. . . servaunt, _s._ lover, xvi. . serven, _error for_ serve, _ pr. s. subj._ serve, xxiv. . sessoun, _s._ seasoning, xvii. . set by, _pp._ esteemed, xvi. . sete, _s._ seat, i. ii. . . sete, _pp._ sat, xx. . setling, _s._ sapling, shoot, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . . sette, _v._ (_perhaps_) lay down (a stake), xvi. (see note); _ pr. s._ suppose, i. i. . ; _pr. pl._ lay stakes (upon), run risk (upon), xiii. . sew, sewe, _ger._ to follow up, pursue, xxi. ; to sue, xxi. ; _v._ sue, xxi. ; pursue, xvi. ; _ pr. s._ follow, pursue, xvi. ; _pr. pl._ follow, ii. , ; go, ii. ; sue, xxiv. ; _imp. s._ sue, xxi. . sewe, _pp._ sown, ii. . sewe, _error for_ shewe, _ger._ to shew, ii. . sey, _s._ sea, xvii. . sey, _ pt. s._ saw, xxiv. ; seye, _pp._ seen, i. ii. . . shad, _pp._ shed, iv. . shaddow, _s._ reflexion, image, xvii. . shadowe, _v._ shelter, ii. . shake, _ger._ to be shaken down, viii. . shall, _ pr. s._ owe, xxiv. . shapen, _pp._ shaped, xx. ; shape, ii. ; _imp. pl._ endeavour, vii. . share, _s._ plough-share, ii. . shede, _v._ part, ii. . shede, _ger._ to shed, viii. ; _v._ part, ii. ; _pp._ dispersed, xvii. ; poured out, i. ii. . . shedinge, _s._ that which is shed or dropped, i. i. _pr._ . sheef, _s._ sheaf, xxi. . shel, _s._ shell, i. i. . . shende, _ger._ to disgrace, i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; to harm, i. ii. . ; to reprove, ii. ; _v._ disgrace, ix. ; destroy, i. ii. . ; _pr. s._ disgraces, i. ii. . ; _pr. s. subj._ spoil, v. ; _pr. pl. subj._ may (they) disgrace, xvi. ; shent, _pp._ reproached, ii. ; scolded, xvi. ; exhausted, xx. ; ill-treated, ii. ; disgraced, i. ii. . . shene, _adj._ showy, fair, xvii. ; bright, viii. ; xx. . shene, _ger._ to shine, xxiv. . misused for _shine_. shepy, _adj._ sheepish, i. i. . . sheres, _s. pl._ shears, xiii. ; xiv. . sherte, _s._ shirt, viii. . sheteth, _pr. s._ shoots, viii. . sheth, _s._ sheath, ii. . shetinge, _s._ shooting, viii. . shew, _ pr. s._ shew, xvii. . shilde, _pr. s. subj._ shield, xviii. . shill, _adv._ shrilly, xvii. . shipcraft, _s._ use of a ship, i. i. . . shir, _s._ sir, xvii. . shit, _pp._ shut, xvi. ; xxiv. . shiver, _v._ break, be shattered, viii. . sho, _pron._ she, xvii. . shockes, _s. pl._ shocks of corn, i. i. _pr._ . shon, _ger._ to shun, xxiv. ; _pp._ avoided, i. iii. . . shoon, _s. pl._ shoes, ii. . shoop, _pt. s._ endeavoured, i. i. . ; shopen, _pt. pl._ appointed, made, i. i. . ; decreed, viii. . shorers, _s._ posts to shore a thing up, props, i. ii. . . shot, _s._ glance, xvi. . (f. _trait_.) shove, _imp. pl._ push, vi. . shreudnes, _s._ wickedness, i. ii. . . shrewe, pr. s. curse, xviii. . shrifte-fathers, _s. pl._ confessors, iii. . shroude, _v. refl._ (to) shelter themselves, xiii. ; _ger._ to cover, hide, viii. . shryft-silver, _s._ money for shriving, ii. . shryked, _pt. s._ shrieked, xxiv. . shynande, _pres. pt._ shining, i. ii. . ; shynende, i. i. . . shyre, _s._ shire, ii. . sicamour, _s._ sycamore, xx. sightful, _adj._ visible, i. iii. . . siker, _adj._ secure, i. iii. . ; sure, i. ii. . ; iv. ; xix. . siker, _adv._ certainly, ii. . sikernesse, _s._ security, viii. ; xiii. ; xvi. . silde, _adv._ seldom, i. ii. . . simplely, _adv._ simply, xxi. . simplesse, _s._ simplicity, xvi. . singuler, _adj._ single, i. i. . . sit, _pr. s. impers._ suits, iv. ; v. ; befits, iv. ; becomes, viii. . see sitteth. sith, _s. pl._ times, xxiv. , . sith, _conj._ since, iii. ; vii. ; xix. ; sithe, viii. ; sithen, i. i. . ; xviii. . sithen, _adv._ since, ago, i. ii. . . sitteth, _pr. s._ suits, xvi. ; _impers._ (it) oppresses, i. iii. . ; _pres. pt._ fitting, viii. ; xx. . skall, _s._ sore place, scab, ii. . skere, _adj._ sheer, clean, pure, ii. . skil, _s._ reason, i. ii. . ; skille, viii. ; _pl._ i. i. . ; i. i. . . skilfully, _adv._ reasonably, iii. . skippen, _v._ skip, xxiv. . sklaundringe, _pres. pt._ slandering, i. i. . . skleren, _pr. pl._ veil, i. ii. . . skoffes, _s. pl._ scoffs, xxiv. . skrivenere, _s._ scrivener, viii. . slake, _adj._ slack, ended, xvi. . slake, _v._ pay slight heed to, xvi. ; become slack, get loose, iv. . slee, _v._ (to) slay, ii. ; xi. ; _pr. s._ viii. ; slawe, _pp._ slain, i. ii. . ; ii. ; viii. . sleigh, _adj._ cunning, i. iii. . . sleight, _s._ subtlety, v. ; trick, xiv. . sleightly, _adj._ sly, viii. . slendre, _adj._ thin, slim, v. . slevelesse, _adj._ sleeveless, vain, i. ii. . . sleves, _s. pl._ sleeves, xx. ; xxi. , . slidden, _pp._ slid, slipped, i. i. . . sliper, _adj._ slippery, xiii. ; xvi. . slo, _v._ slay, xi. . slogard, _s._ sluggard, xii. . slogardrye, _s._ sluggishness, vii. , . slouthe, _s._ sloth, viii. . slowe, _pt. s. subj._ should slay, iv. . slutte, _s._ slut, v. . sluttishness, _s._ slovenliness, xxiv. . slye, _adj._ cunning, i. ii. . . smal, _adj._ high, treble, xx. . see note, p. . smaragde, _s._ emerald, xxiv. . smere, _pr. pl._ smear, ii. ; _pr. pl. (or v.)_, smear, ii. . smerteth, _pr. s._ causes to smart, xvi. ; smertande, _pres. pt._ smarting, i. ii. . ; painful, i. ii. . . smyteth, _pr. s._ defiles, i. ii. . . snak, _s._ snack, share, v. . sobbinges, _s. pl._ sobs, i. iii. . . socoures, _s. pl._ assistance, xvi. . sodainly, _adv._ suddenly, xi. ; xx. . sodayn, _adj._ sudden, i. iii. . . softe, _adj._ easy, iii. . soget, _s._ subject, xxiv. ; _adj._ xxiv. . soill, _v._ absolve, iii. . sojorn, _pr. s. subj._ dwell, xxiv. . sojour, _s._ abode, xxiv. . sojoure, _v._ sojourn, xxiv. . sojournant, _s._ visitor, guest, ii. . sojourne, _s._ residence, rest, xvi. . sole, _adj._ alone, xx. . soleyn, _adj._ sole, unsupported, i. iii. . . somer-sonne, _s._ summer-sun, ix. . somer-wyse, _adj._ suitable for summer, xxiv. . somme, _s._ sum, ii. . sompning, _s._ summoning, ii. . sompnour, _s._ summoner, ii. . sonde, _s._ sending, ordinance, iv. . sonË, _s._ son, v. . songe, _pp._ sung, iii. . songedest, _ pt. s._ didst dream, i. ii. . . f. _songer_. soot, _s._ soot, i. ii. . . soote, _adj._ sweet, xxiv. . sop, _s._ sup, xvii. . sort, _s._ kind, set, xxi. ; company, xxiv. ; multitude, xxii. ; _after a s._, after one pattern, xxi. . sot, _s._ foolish person, xx. . sote, _s._ soot, i. ii. . . sote, _adj._ sweet, i. ii. . ; xx. . sotell-persing, _adj._ subtly piercing, xxiv. . soteltÈ, _s._ subtlety, xvi. . soth, _s._ truth, ii. . sothed, _pp._ verified, i. i. . . sotilly, _adv._ subtly, v. . sotiltee, _s._ subtilty, v. . sotted, _pp._ besotted, i. i. . ; xvi. . sottes, _s. pl._ dolts, i. iii. . . souded, _pp._ fixed, i. i. . . souke, _v._ suck, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . soukinges, _s. pl._ food for infants, i. i. . . souled, _pp._ conferred on the soul, i. iii. . . soulË-hele, _s._ health of the soul, salvation, ii. . soun, _s._ sound, viii. . sounde, _s._ swoon, xxiv. . sounde, _ger._ to heal, viii. . soupË, _v._ sup, ii. ; _ger._ xx. . souple, _adj._ supple, weak, ii. . souverain, _s._ mistress, xxiv. . sovenez, _s. pl._ remember-me's, plants of germander, xxi. , . see note, p. . soverainnesse, _s._ sovereignty, i. ii. . . soverayne, _adj._ supreme, ix. . soverayntee, s. supremacy, i. ii. . ; ix. . sowe, _pp._ sown, i. iii. . ; v. . sowe, _ger._ to sew together, i. i. . . sown, _v._ sound, be heard, xxiv. ; _pr. pl._ tend, xxiv. ; _pres. pt._ tending, xvi. . sowne, _s._ sound, voice, i. i. . ; xvi. ; _pl._ xx. . sowpit, _pp._ drenched, xvii. . see note. soyle, _ger._ to absolve, ii. . soyr, _adj._ sorrel (in colour), reddish brown, xvii. . span, _s._ span (in length), xxiv. . speces, _s. pl._ kinds, sorts, i. iii. . . spede, _v._ prosper, xxi. ; expedite, ii. ; _pr. pl._ succeed, xxiv. ; sped, _pp._ provided with a mate, xxiv. . speid, _s._ speed; _good sp._, quickly, eagerly, xvii. . speir, _s._ spear, xvii. . speiris, _pr. s._ asks, xvii. . sperd, _pp._ fastened, shut up, xvi. . spere, _s._ sphere, viii. ; x. . sperkelande, _pres. pt._ wandering in different directions, i. i. . . spille, _ger._ to destroy, i. i. _pr._ ; i. ii. . ; to perish, to pine, i. i. . ; _v._ perish, xviii. ; _pr. s._ spoils, xxiv. ; spilte, _pp._ destroyed, i. i. . . spinne, _ger._ to spin, xiv. . spire, _s._ blade, young shoot, i. iii. . , . spittail-hous, _s._ hospital, xvii. . splaye, _ger._ to display, viii. . splene, _s._ spleen, ill temper, xvi. . sponne, _pp._ spun, iv. ; viii. . spontanye, _adj._ spontaneous, i. iii. . . spousayle, _s._ espousal, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . sprad, _pp._ spread, i. i. _pr._ ; i. i. . . spreit, _s._ spirit, xvii. ; _pl._ xvii. . springen, _pr. s. subj._ (_for_ springe), may spring, should spring (abroad), xxiv. . springes, _s. pl._ growths, growing things, shoots, i. iii. . ; sources, i. ii. . . springing, _s._ dawning, xx. ; xxi. . spronge, _pp._ sprinkled, i. i. . . (the right form is _spreyned_.) spryt, _s._ spirit, ii. . spurnis, _ pr. s._ kickest, xvii. . spyces, _s. pl._ species, sorts of people, i. ii. . . spyne, _s._ thorn, x. . square, _v._ to square, make square by cutting, xx. . squeymous, _adj._ squeamish, xxiv. . stabelnesse, _s._ stability, xiii. . stablisshment, _s._ establishment, i. iii. . . stad, _pp._ bestead, beset, xi. ; xvii. . stal, _pt. s._ stole, ii. . stale, _adj._ late, ii. . stalking, _pres. pt._ going stealthily, xxiv. . stalle, _s._ stall, papal chair, iv. . stalle, _v._ install, vi. . stamped, _pp._ stamped, pressed, i. iii. . . stanche, _ger._ to quench, i. iii. . . stant, _pr. s._ stands, i. iii. . ; iv. ; is, xvi. . starkly, _adv._ strongly, severely, xvii. . starnis, _s. pl._ stars, xvii. . statly, _adj._ stately, costly, xx. . statut, _s._ statute, xxiv. . staunching, _s._ staying, i. iii. . . stayres, _s. pl._ stairs, xxi. . stedfastnesse, _s._ assurance, viii. . stedship, _s._ security, safety (?), i. i. . . a coined word. steering, _s._ guidance, i. ii. . . steir, _ger._ to govern, xvii. . steir, _ger._ to stir, xvii. . stele, _s._ handle, v. . stelthe, _s._ stealth, subtle trick, v. . stent, _s._ rate; _at oo s._, at one rate, valued equally, xvi. . stepmoder, _s._ stepmother, i. iii. . . stere, _s._ rudder, iv. ; vii. . stere, _ger._ to stir, move men to, iv. ; i. i. . ; _pp._ i. ii. . ; displaced, i. i. . ; _pres. pt._ moving, xx. ; active, i. ii. . . stering, _pres. pt._ guiding, xxiv. . stering, _s._ stirring, i. i. . ; movement, i. i. _pr._ ; provocation, xviii. . steringe, _s._ management, i. ii. . . sterne, _s._ rudder, i. i. . . sterre, _s._ star, x. , , ; (of bethlehem), i. ii. . . sterry, _adj._ starry, xx. . sterte, _pt. s._ started, leapt, i. iii. . ; darted, xvii. ; _ pt. s._ started, xviii. . sterve, _ger._ to die, xviii. ; _v._ i. i. . ; _ pr. s._ ix. . stevin, _s._ voice, xvii. . steye, _ger._ to climb, i. i. . . steyers, _s. pl._ stairs, i. i. . . stigh, _pt. s._ ascended, iv. . stik, _v._ stick, remain, xxiv. . stinte, _v._ leave off, i. i. . ; _pr. s._ ceases, i. iii. . ; stinten, _pr. pl._ (_error for_ stinteth, _pr. s._ ceases), i. ii. . ; _pt. s._ ceased, i. ii. . ; _pt. s. subj._ were to leave off, i. iii. . ; _pp._ stopped, viii. . stirpe, _s._ stock, race, xxiv. . stocke, _s._ trunk, stem, i. iii. . ; idol, ii. ; _pl._ the stocks, i. i. . . stondmele, _adv._ at various times, i. ii. . . stoon, _s._ stone (but here used with reference to the magnet), xiii. . storied, _pp._ full of stories, representing various stories, i. ii. . . storiers, _s. pl. gen._ of story-tellers, i. iii. . . (th. _starieres_.) stories, _s. pl._ histories, xiii. . stounde, _s._ time, ix. ; xviii. ; meanwhile, xxiv. ; sudden pain, xvii. ; _pl._ times, hours, i. i. . ; _pl._ acute pains, xvii. . stoundemele, _adv._ sometimes, now and then, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . stout, _adj._ proud, ii. . strait, _adj._ strict, xvi. ; narrow, xxi. . straunge, _adj._ distant in manner, xxiv. ; _as s._ a stranger, i. i. . . strayne, _v._ constrain, i. ii. . . strayt, _adj._ strict, xvi. ; close, xvi. ; vexatious, i. ii. . . strecchen, _v._ extend, last, suffice, i. ii. . . stremes, _s. pl._ glances, beams, xxiv. ; glances, xxiv. ; rays, viii. , ; x. ; xxii. . streming, _pres. pt._ beaming, x. . strene, _s._ race, kindred, strain, stock, xxiv. . strengtheth, _pr. s._ strengthens, i. iii. . . strengthinge, _s._ strengthening, i. ii. . . streyght, _pt. s._ stretched, i. ii. . . stro, _s._ straw, xvii. . stroy, _ger._ to destroy, xvi. . studient, _adj._ studious, i. iii. . . stulty, _adj._ foolish, i. ii. . . sturdily, _adv._ strongly, xx. . sturte, _pr. pl._ start up, ii. . style, _s._ style, viii. . styred, _ pt. s._ stirred, i. ii. . . styroppes, _s._ stirrups, ii. . subget, _s._ subject, ii. . submit, _pp._ submitted, xvi. . substancial, _adj._ that which is substance, i. ii. . . suerly, _adv._ surely, verily, xxi. . suffisaunce, _s._ sufficiency, xi. ; what suffices (me), xxii. . suffraunce, sufferance, xvi. ; patience, ii. . suger-dropes, _s. pl._ sweet drops, xxiv. . sugets, _s. pl._ subjects, v. . sugre, _s._ sugar, xxiv. . sugred, _adj._ sugared, sweet, i. i. . ; xii. ; xiv. . suld, _pt. s._ should, xxvii. . superscriptioun, _s._ title, description, xvii. . supple-werchinge, _adj._ pliant, i. iii. . . supportacioun, _s._ support, xvi. . supposaile, _s._ expectation, i. iii. . . suppryse, _v._ undertake, ix. . surcotes, _s. pl._ surcoats, xx. , . surfettes, _s. pl._ surfeits, i. ii. . . surplice, _s._ surplice, i. ii. . . surquedry, _s._ arrogance, i. iii. . ; viii. . sursanure, _s._ a wound that only heals outwardly, ix. . suspent, _pp._ suspended, ii. . suspiries, _s. pl._ sighs, xix. . sustene, _v._ sustain, endure, bear up, xx. ; _pr. s._ maintains, v. . sustenour, _s._ sustainer, vi. . sustern, _s. pl._ sisters, i. iii. . ; sustren, viii. ; susters, xxiv. . sute, _s._ suit, xvi. ; livery, xx. , , ; set, row, viii. . swak, _v._ throw; _can swak_, _v._ threw, cast quickly, xvii. . swaye, _s._ sway, i. iii. . . sweit, _s._ sweat, xvii. . swelt, _pt. pl._ fainted, xvii. ; xx. ; died, xvii. . swete, _s._ sweat, i. i. . . swete, _ pr. s._ sweat, viii. ; swetande, _pres. pt._ sweating, laborious, i. i. _pr._ . swink, _s._ toil, i. i. . ; i. i. . (see note, p. ). swinke, _ger._ to toil, ii. . swote, _adv._ sweetly, viii. . swough, _s._ swoon, viii. . swoun, _s._ swoon, xvii. ; swow, xviii. . swowning, _s._ trance, xviii. . swyre, _s._ neck, ii. . sy, _ pt. s._ saw, xx. . syching, _pres. pt._ sighing, xvii. ; _s._ xvii. . syder, _s._ cider, xvii. . sye, _pt. pl._ saw, ii. . syke, _v._ sigh, viii. ; _pr. s._ xviii. . sylit, _pp._ lit. ceiled; hence, covered, xvii. . syne, _adv._ afterwards, xvii. . sypher, _s._ cipher, i. ii. . . syropis, _s. pl._ syrups, xvii. . sys and cinq, six and five, xiii. . see note. syte, _s._ sorrow, xvii. . sythes, _s. pl._ scythes, i. i. _pr._ . tabard, _s._ ploughman's coat, ii. . tabard-wyse, (in) a way like a tabard, or herald's coat, xxi. . tables, _s. pl._ writing-tablets, iii. . t'abyde, _ger._ to abide, ii. . tache, _s._ defect, blame, xiii. ; _pl._ xviii. . taidis, _s. pl._ toads, xvii. . taikning, _s._ token, xvii. . taistis, _pr. s._ tastes, tries, xxvii. . take, _v._ be set, viii. . talent, _s._ pleasure, xxiv. . t'apere, to appear, xxiv. . tapet, _s._ piece of tapestry, xxi. , ; tapites, _pl._ tapestry, i. ii. . ; carpets, viii. . tartarium, _s._ tartary cloth, xx. . t'assure, _ger._ to secure, protect, xiii. . taylages, _s. pl._ taxes, i. ii. . . telle, _v._ recount, i. ii. . ; _pr. pl._ count, ii. . tellinge, _s._ counting, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . tenauntes, _s. pl._ tenants, iii. . tend, _pr. pl._ attend, ii. . tender, _v._ affect, cherish, xxiv. . t'endure, to endure, xxiv. . t'endyte, _ger._ to indite, ix. . tene, _s._ vexation, i. ii. . ; xviii. ; xx. ; sorrow, i. i. . ; v. ; harm, vii. ; anger, xvii. . teneful, _adj._ distressful, i. ii. . ; miserable, i. ii. . . teneth, _pr. s._ grieves, vexes, i. i. . . tenetz, _s._ tennis, iv. . see note. t'enprintË, to imprint, vii. . terme, _s._ term, appointed age, i. iii. . ; _t. of my lyf_, for all my lifetime, xviii. . terrestre, _adj._ terrestrial, i. ii. . . tewne, _s._ tune, xxiv. . t'excuse, to excuse, viii. . teyed, _pp._ tied, bound, i. iii. . . than, _adv._ then; _or than_, ere then, before, xx. . thank, _s._ thanks, viii. . thankfully, _adv._ by way of thanks, xvi. . thank-worthy, _adj._ worthy of thanks. i. i. _pr._ . th'ayr, the air, v. . thee, _v._ prosper, succeed, ii. . thee-wardes, to, towards thee, i. i. . . th'effect, the effect, v. ; the tenour, viii. . thenken, _ger._ to think, viii. ; _pr. s._ xxiv. . th'entent, the intent, i. i. . . therafter, _adv._ accordingly, i. i. . ; iii. . ther-as, _adv._ where that, i. i. _pr._ ; xvi. . ther-ayeines, _adv._ there-against, viii. ; ther-ayenst, on the contrary, vii. . thereto, _adv._ moreover, xx. . there-without, _adv._ outside, xx. . ther-inne, _adv._ therein, v. . therthorough, _adv._ thereby, i. iii. . ; there-thorow, i. i. . . th'eschaunge, _s._ the exchange, i. iii. . . thewes, _s. pl._ customs, manner, v. ; xxvi. . thilke, _adj._ that (person), i. i. _pr._ ; that same, i. iii. . ; _pron._ those, iv. . thinkes me, _pr. s. impers._ it seems to me, i intend, xxiv. . thir, _pron._ those, xvii. . thirlith, _pr. s._ pierces, xxiv. . tho, _adv._ then, i. i. . ; xvii. . thoillit, _pt. s._ suffered, xvii. . thoo, _pron._ those, xxiv. . thorough, _prep._ through, by, xix. . thorough-sought, _pp._ (that has) penetrated (me), i. i. . . thoughtful, _adj._ anxious, i. ii. . . thrall, _adj._ subject, ii. . (doubtful; perhaps _wol come thrall_ = will consent to become servants.) thralle, _v._ enthral, vi. ; _pp._ made subject, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . thralles, _s. pl._ thralls, ii. . threed, _s._ thread, xx. . threshing, _pres. pt._ thrashing, ii. . thresten, _pr. pl._ endeavour (lit. thrust), i. i. . . thridde, _adj._ third, xviii. ; xx. . thrist, _ pr. s._ thirst, i. i. . . thronge, _pp._ thrust, i. i. . . through-girt, _pp._ pierced through, viii. . throw, _s._ time, xx. ; moment, short time, xiv. ; xxiv. ; space of time, xx. . throw-out, _as adj._ thorough, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . thrust, _s._ thirst, viii. . thrustell-cok, _s._ thrush, xxiv. . thursting, _pres. pt._ thirsting, i. iii. . . tiffelers, _s. pl._ triflers, ii. . see _tiffle_ in halliwell. tillour, _s._ tiller, ii. ; _pl._ ii. . tilthe, _s._ tillage, i. iii. . . titmose, _s._ titmouse, ix. . to, _adv._ too, xvii. . to, _prep._ up to; _to thy might_, as far you can, xxiv. . to-bente, _pp. as adj._ bowed down, subject, rendered obedient, ix. . to-brast, _pt. s._ burst asunder, xvi. . to-breke, _v._ break in two, xviii. . to-brent, _pp._ (were) much burnt, xx. . to-brest, _pt. s._ burst in twain, xvi. . to-broke, _pp._ utterly broken, iv. . toder; _the toder_ = _that oder_, the other, xxiv. , . to-drawe, _pp._ drawn, ii. ; drawn asunder, xviii. . tofore, _adj._ before, ix. . tofor(e)going, _adj._ foregoing, antecedent, i. iii. . . tofore-nempned, _pp._ aforenamed, i. ii. . . toforn, _prep._ before, i. i. _pr._ ; _conj._ before that, i. ii. . . toforn-going, _adj._ antecedent, i. iii. . . to-forn-hand, _adv._ beforehand, i. i. . . to-forn-sayd, _pp._ aforesaid, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . to-hemward, towards them, i. ii. . . to-him-wardes, towards him, i. iii. . . tole, _s._ tool, instrument, ii. , ; _pl._ ii. . tombestere, _s._ female dancer, i. ii. . . to-morne, to-morrow, i. iii. . . tone; _the tone_ = _thet one_, the one, xxiv. , . to-pull, _pr. pl._ pull to pieces, ii. . to-race, _v._ tear to pieces, ii. . torcencious, _adj._ exacting, i. i. . . apparently a false form; it should rather be _torcenous_, from o.f. _torconos_, _torcenous_, exacting; see godefroy. torcious, _adj._ exacting, i. ii. . . probably for _torcenous_ (see above). tore, _pp._ torn, viii. . to-rent, _pp._ with garments much rent, xii. ; much torn, ii. . torned, _pp._ turned, xiv. . tort, _s._ wrong, i. ii. . . to-tere, _v._ rend in pieces, ii. ; xx. ; _pt. s._ tore to pieces, vii. . toteth, _pr. s._ looks, ii. , . tother; _the tother_ = _thet other_, that other, xx. . to-torn, _pp._ with garments much torn, xii. . tour, _s._ tower, i. i. . . towayle, _s._ towel, i. ii. . ; towelles, _pl._ i. ii. . . town, _s._ farm, ii. . to-yere, _adv._ this year, xviii. . cf. _to-day_. trace, _s._ a round (in a dance), xvi. . traines, _s. pl._ trains (of dresses), xx. . traistit, _ pt. s._ trusted, hoped, xvii. . traitory, _s._ treachery, iii. ; xiv. . transitorie, _adj._ transitory, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . . transmew, _ger._ to move across, change, xiii. . transverse, _v._ gainsay, i. i. . . trapped, _pp._ adorned with trappings, xx. . trappures, _s. pl._ trappings, xx. . traunce, _s._ trance, dream, xvi. . travayle, _s._ toil, xvi. . traveyled, _pp._ worked for, i. iii. . ; travall, _pr. pl._ labour, ii. . tray, _ger._ to betray, ii. ; _v._ ii. . trayle, _s._ trellis, xvi. , . (f. text, _treille_.) traynes, _s. pl._ snares, ix. . trenchours, _s. pl._ trenchers, i.e. pieces of bread used as plates, i. i. _pr._ . trentall, _s._ trental, mass repeated for thirty days, iii. . tresory, _s._ treasury, iii. ; xx. . treted, _pp._ treated, iv. . tretis, _s._ treatise, i. iii. . ; tretesse, xxiv. . trew-love, _s._ true-lover's knot, bow of ribbon, xxiv. . see note. tristesse, _s._ sadness, xi. . troncheoun, _s._ thick and short staff (properly, a broken piece of a spear), xx. . trone, _s._ throne, iv. . troned, _pp._ enthroned, i. i. . . troublous, _adj._ troublesome, xx. . trumpe, _s._ trumpet, xx. ; _pl._ xx. . trumpet, _s._ trumpeter, xx. ; _pl._ xx. . trusse, _pr. pl._ pack up, ii. . tucke, _s._ fold, i. i. . . tuilyour, _s._ quarreller; _t.-lyk_, quarrelsome, xvii. . turkeis (lit. turkish), an epithet of baleis, xxiv. . turtill-dove, _s._ turtle-dove, xxiv. , . turtle, _s._ turtle-dove, x. . turved, _pp._ turfed, xx. . turves, _s. pl._ pieces of turf, xx. . tutele, _s._ guardian, x. . twey, _num._ two, i. iii. . ; xxiv. ; twa, xvii. . twinkling, _s._ small point, least matter, i. i. . . (lit. glimmer, glimpse.) twinne, _ pr. s. subj._ may depart, ix. ; _ pr. s._ v. . tythen, _ger._ to pay tithes, ii. . tything, _s._ tithe, ii. , ; _pl._ ii. . tytled, _pp._ entitled, i. ii. . . umple, fine stuff in a single fold, fine gauze or lawn, xxi. . unable, _adj._ weak, i. iii. . . unbodye, _ger._ to quit the body, i. i. . . unbrent, _pp._ unburnt, x. . unconning, _adj._ unskilful, i. i. . . unconning, _s._ ignorance, i. iii. . ; vii. ; uncunning, iii. . uncouth, _adj._ strange, unusual, xxiv. ; unknown, i. ii. . . undefouled, _pp._ undefiled, x. . underfongen, _pp._ undertaken, iv. . underneminge, _s._ reproof, iii. . undernime, _ pr. pl._ reprove, iii. . underput, _pp._ shored up, supported, i. ii. . ; subjected, i. i. . ; subject, i. i. . . understonde, _pp._ understood, i. iii. . ; ii. ; understande, i. iii. . ; understont, _pr. s._ ii. ; understondeth, _imp. pl._ v. . understonding, _adj._ intelligible, i. i. _pr._ . under-throwen, _pp._ made subject, i. iii. . . unfair, _adv._ horribly, xvii. . unfold, _pp._ unfolded, xx. . ungentil, _adj._ not of gentle birth, i. ii. . . ungoodly, _adj._ unkind, ii. . ungoodly, _adv._ evilly, unfairly, viii. . unhold, _adj._ faithless, ii. . universal, _s._ the whole, i. ii. . . universitee, _s._ the universe, i. i. . . unkindly, _adj._ unnatural, xx. . unknit, _pp._ rejected, i. ii. . . unknowe, _pp._ unknown, i. ii. . . unkyndely, _adv._ unusually, i. i. _pr._ . unlefful, _adj._ not permissible, forbidden, i. ii. . . unlok, _v._ unlock, xxiv. . unlust, _s._ listlessness, v. . unmete, _adj._ unsuitable, xx. . unmighty, _adj._ weak, feeble, i. ii. . ; iii. . unneth, _adv._ scarcely, i. i. _pr._ ; ii. ; iv. ; xx. ; with difficulty, i. iii. . . unnethes, _adv._ scarcely, ii. ; v. . unpees, _s._ war, i. ii. . . unperfit, _adj._ imperfect, iii. . unpower, _s._ weakness, iii. . unpurveyed, _pp._ unprovided, xxi. ; xxiv. . unreson, _s._ lack of reason, i. iii. . . unresty, _adj._ restless, x. . unricht, _adv._ wrongly, amiss, xvii. . unright, _s._ injustice, ii. ; viii. . unrightful, _adj._ unjust, i. iii. . . unsely, _adj._ unhappy, i. i. . . unsene, _adj._ invisible, i. i. _pr._ . unshitte, _v._ open, unfasten, i. iii. . ; unshit, disclose, xxiv. ; unshet, _ pr. pl._ i. i. . ; _pp._ opened, xvi. . unshrive, _pp._ unshriven, ii. . untall, _adj._ not tall, weak, ii. . unthrifty, _adj._ unprofitable, i. i. . . unthryve, _v._ prosper ill, have ill luck, xviii. . see note. untrend, _pp._ not rolled up, ii. . see note. unwar, _adv._ at unawares, xxiv. . unweldy, _adj._ unwieldy, hence, infirm, xv. _a._ ; xv. _b._ ; weak, vii. . unwetinge, _pres. pt._ unwitting, i. i. . ; _but an error for_ unwist, i.e. unknown. unworship, _s._ discredit, i. i. . . unworshipped, _pp._ treated with disrespect, i. ii. . . unwyse, _adj._ not wise, iii. . uphap, _adv._ perhaps, i. i. . . uplande, i.e. living in the country, countryman, iii. . upperest, _adj._ highest, i. i. . . uprais, _pt. s._ rose, xvii. . ure, _s._ fortune, destiny, viii. , , ; xxiv. , ; xxv. . us(e), _s._ use, i. iii. . ; use, . ussher, _s._ usher, xxi. . vailable, _adj._ useful, iv. . vaile, _s._ veil, xxiv. . vailing, _pres. pt._ lowering, xvii. . vale, _s._ valley, viii. . valewe, _s._ value, i. i. . . valey, _s._ valley, xvi. . valis, _pr. s._ avails, xxvii. . (sing. after _what_.) varyaunt, _adj._ changeable, i. ii. . ; variable, i. ii. . . vassalage, _s._ prowess, vii. . vaylance, _s._ benefit, profit, i. ii. . . vayleth, _pr. s._ availeth (it), xvi. ; _pp._ i. i. . . veluËt, _s._ velvet, viii. ; xx. ; veluet, xx. , . vengeable, _adj._ revengeful, i. ii. . ; ii. . vent, _s._ slit of a gown at the neck, xxi. . f. _fente_. venym, _s._ venom, v. . verament, _adv._ truly, ii. . vere, _s._ spring-time, i. ii. . . vermayle, _adj._ crimson, x. . vermelet, _adj._ red, xxiv. . vertules, _adj._ without virtue, vii. , . vertuous, _adj._ endowed with virtue or power, i. iii. . . very, _adv._ extremely, xx. , ; very, xx. ; xxi. . vestËment, _s._ vestment, ii. , . viage, _s._ voyage, journey, i. i. . ; iv. ; xxi. . vibrat, _pp._ vibrated, x. . vicaire, _s._ vicar, ii. ; _pl._ iii. . vinolent, _adj._ drunken, xii. . violet, _s._ violet, ii. ; xxiv. . virelay, _s._ lay with recurring rimes, xi. . (such as _aabaab . bbabba_.) virginal, _adj._ virgin-like, xii. . vocacioun, _s._ calling of an assembly together, xvii. . voiden, _v._ (to) take away, xxiv. ; escape, xiii. ; _pr. s._ retreats, i. i. . . voluntarious, _adj._ voluntary, free, i. ii. . . voluntÈ, _s._ free will, viii. . voluptuously, _adv._ luxuriously, i. ii. . . vouche, _pr. pl._ avouch, ii. . voyde, _ger._ to banish, ix. ; _v._ escape, i. i. . ; set aside, i. iii. . ; _pr. s._ dispels, i. ii. . ; departs, i. i. . . vyntre, vintry, vii. (_title_). vyole, _s._ vial, x. . vyse, _s._ advice, intention, i. i. . . vytre, _s._ glass, x. . wa, _adj._ sad, xvii. . wageours, _s. pl._ wagers, xxi. . wagge, _v._ move, stir, i. i. _pr._ ; _ger._ xvii. . waillit, _pp._ chosen, choice, xvii. . wait, _pr. s._ knows, xvii. . waited, _ pt. s._ watched, xx. . wake, _s._ fair, ii. . wake, _v._ keep a revel, i. ii. . . wald, _pt. s._ would (have), desired, xvii. . walet, _s._ wallet, bag, i. i. _pr._ . wall,_ s._ well, ii. . see note. walled, _pp._ walled, viii. . walowe, _ger._ to toss about, xxiv. ; _ pr. s._ i. i. . . wan, _adj._ pale, dim of colour, xiv. . wan, _pt. pl._ won, xx. . (a guess; the old ed. has _manly_!) wandred, _pp._ men who have wandered, x. . wane, _s._ weening, thought, xvii. . see will. wang-tooth, _s._ molar tooth, ii. . wanhope, _s._ despair, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; xvii. . want, _ pr. s._ lack, do not possess, do not know, xx. ; _pr. s._ is lacking, xvi. . wantinge, _s._ lacking, i. i. _pr._ . wantrust, _s._ distrust, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . war, _adj._ aware, i. i. . ; _be w._, beware, vii. . war, _adj._ worse, xvii. . warantyse, _s._ surety; _on w._, on my surety, xxi. . warderobe, _s._ wardrobe, i. ii. . . waren, _pt. pl._ wore, xx. . waried, _pp._ cursed, xxiv. . warldly, _adj._ worldly, xxvii. . warne, _v._ refuse, i. ii. . . warnisshe, _s._ protection, i. ii. . . warnisshed, _pp._ defended, i. ii. . . wastour, _s._ waster, xii. . waved, _pp._ wavered, i. i. . . wawes, _s. pl._ waves, i. i. _pr._ ; i. i. . ; vii. ; xiii. . waxe, _v._ grow to be, ii. ; _pp._ become, ii. . wayted, _pp._ watched, iv. . wayters, _s. pl._ spies, i. iii. . ; guards, sentinels, i. i. . . waytinge, _s._ watching, lying in wait, i. ii. . . webbes, _s. pl._ dimness of vision, i. i. . . see note, p. . wede, _s._ covering, xiv. . weden, _pr. pl._ weed, iii. . weder, _s._ weather, i. i. _pr._ ; wedder, xvii. ; _pl._ storms, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . wedes, _s. pl._ weeds, x. . wedring, _s._ tempest, i. iii. . . weed, _s. (as pl.)_ garments, apparel, xx. ; weid, xvii. . weght, _s._ weight, xiii. . weip, _pt. s._ wept, xvii. (or _infin._ to weep). weir, _s._ war, xvii. , . weir, _ger._ to guard, ward off, xvii. . weird, _s._ destiny, xvii. , . weiris, _pr. s._ wears, wastes away, xvii. . weked, _pp._ rendered weak (but read _wikked_), i. i. . . wel-condicioned, _adj._ of good condition, xx. . welde, _v._ possess, ii. , , ; manage, xxiv. ; _ pr. s._ i. ii. . . weldoing, _s._ well-doing, i. ii. . . wele, _s._ wealth, ii. ; vii. . welfulnesse, _s._ wealth, i. i. . . welke, _ pr. s._ wither, i. ii. . ; welked, _pp._ withered, old, i. iii. . ; withered, wrinkled, i. iii. . . welken, _s._ sky, i. i. . . welkeneth, _pr. s._ withers, fades, xxii. . welle, _s._ well, source, ix. ; _pl._ streams, rills, xvii. . wellen, _pr. pl._ rise up, have their source, i. i. . ; _pres. pt._ flowing, i. i. . . wel-meninge, _adj._ well-intentioned, i. ii. . . welterit, _pp._ overturned, xvii. . welth, _s._ happiness, i. i. . . welwilly, _adj._ benignant, favourable, viii. . wem, _s._ stain, i. i. . . wemlees, _adj._ spotless, x. . wende, _v._ go, xviii. ; _pt. s._ went, xvii. ; _pp._ gone, ii. . wene, _s._ _withoute w._, without doubt, ix. ; xiii. . wenen, _pr. pl._ imagine, i. ii. . ; _ pt. s._ expected, i. i. . ; _ pt. s._ didst expect, i. ii. . ; wenden, _pt. pl._ imagined, i. ii. . ; wend (_old text_, went), imagined, xxi. ; went, _pr. s._ weens, imagines, guesses, viii. . see note. wening, _s._ fancy, xvi. . went, _pp._ gone, departed, i. ii. . . wepen, _s._ weapon, ii. . werbles, _s. pl._ warblings, notes, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . werche, _pr. s. subj._ operate, i. ii. . ; _pres. pt._ working, active, i. ii. . . wercher, _s._ agent, i. iii. . . werchinge, _s._ operation, i. ii. . . werdes, _s. pl._ fates, xxiv. . were, _s._ doubt, ix. ; x. . were, _pt. pl. subj._ should be, xi. ; wern, _pt. pl._ were, i. iii. . . wereth, _pr. s._ wears away, iii. ; _pr. pl._ wear, xxiv. . werien, _v._ grow weary, ii. . werne, _ pr. pl._ refuse, i. i. . ; _pp._ iv. . werninges, _s. pl._ refusals, i. i. . . werre, _s._ war, viii. . werrey, _ pr. s._ war, v. ; _pp._ warred against, viii. . werreyour, _s._ warrior, iv. ; vi. . westreth, _pr. s._ sets in the west, xxii. . wete, _adj._ wet, i. iii. . ; xx. . wete, _ger._ to know, i. i. . ; weten, _ pr. pl._ i. i. . ; ii. ; _pr. pl._ i. iii. . . wethercocke, _s._ weathercock, i. i. . . weting, _s._ knowledge, i. iii. . , . wexeth, _pr. s._ grows, xx. ; _pres. pt._ i. iii. . ; wexte, _pt. s._ became, i. i. . . wexing, _s._ growth, i. i. . . weye, _ger._ to weigh, iv. ; _pp._ . weymenting, _s._ lamenting, xxiv. . weyve, _ger._ to put away, i. ii. . ; _v._ put aside, i. ii. . ; _pr. s. subj._ i. iii. . ; _ pr. s._ rejectest, i. iii. . ; _pr. s._ rejects, i. ii. . ; _pp._ i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . wheder, _conj._ whether (or no), i. iii. . ; xvi. . wheel, _s._ _turning wheel_, winding staircase, xxi. (see note); orbit, i. ii. . . wherof, _adv._ to what purpose, xvi. . wherthrough, _adv._ whereby, i. i. . ; x. ; wherefore, i. ii. . . wherto, _adv._ why? i. i. . . whicche, _s._ hutch, chest, i. ii. . . whirled, _pp._ whirled, driven, xx. . whistel, _s._ whistle, i. ii. . . whyle, _s._ time, viii. . whyt, _adj._ white, ii. ; plausible, xxiv. . wicche, _s._ witch, ii. . wicht, _s._ wight, man, xxvii. . widdercock, _s._ weathercock, xvii. . widderit, _pp._ withered, xvii. ; soiled by weather, xvii. . wight, _s._ person, xx. , . wikke, _adj._ noxious, x. . wikkit, _adj._ evil, xvii. . wilde, _adj._ wild (i.e. unquenchable), i. ii. . . wilde, _ger._ to become wild, i. i. . . will of wane, lit. wild of weening, at a loss as to what to do, xvii. . willers, _s. pl._ wishers, ii. ; _gen._ _such w._, of men who so desire, ii. . willingly, _adv._ wilfully, v. . wilne, _ger._ to desire, i. i. . ; _v._ i. iii. . ; _ pr. pl._ ii. ; _pr. pl._ ii. ; _pp._ i. iii. . . wimpeln, _pr. pl._ cover as with a wimple, i. ii. . ; _pp._ covered up, i. iii. . . wimple, _s._ chin-cloth, xxiv. . winne, _v._ make a gain, ii. . wisse, _pr. s. subj._ may (he) guide, keep away, ii. . wite, _v._ know, xxi. ; witen, _ pr. pl._ know, xviii. ; wistest, _ pt. s._ i. i. . ; wist, _pp._ known, ii. . withdrawe, _ger._ to draw back, hold in, i. ii. . ; _pr. s._ draws away, i. ii. . . with-holde, _pp._ retained, i. ii. . ; xviii. ; kept back, i. iii. . . withies, _s. pl._ withies, twigs of willow, xvi. . (f. text, entrelacee de _saulx vers_.) within-borde, on board, i. i. . . without, _conj._ unless, xxi. . withsaye, _ger._ to contradict, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; _v._ gainsay, ii. . withsetten, _pp._ opposed, i. iii. . ; withset, i. ii. . . withsitte, _v._ resist, i. ii. . ; _ger._ i. iii. . . withsittinge, _s._ opposition, i. ii. . . witles, _adj._ ignorant, ii. . wittes, _s. pl._ wits, senses, i. iii. . . wivers, _s. pl._ vipers, serpents, snakes, i. iii. . . wlate, _v._ loathe, ii. . wo-bestad, _pp._ beset with woe, xxiv. . wode, _adj._ mad, i. iii. . . wodebinde, _s._ woodbine, viii. ; ix. . woir, _pt. s._ carried, wafted away, xvii. . (it seems to be merely a peculiar use of e. _wore_, pt. t. of _wear_; cf. _boir_, bore, in l. .) wol, _s._ wool, xx. . see wolle. wolde, _pt. s. subj._ would wish, xvi. ; wold, _pp._ desired, v. . wolle, _s._ wool, i. ii. . (see the note, p. ); iv. ; woll, ii. , . womanly, _adj._ woman-like, i. ii. . . won, _pr. s. subj._ dwell, xxiv. . wonder, _adj._ wonderful, iii. ; xx. . wonderly, _adv._ wondrously, xxiv. , . wonders, _adv._ wondrously, i. ii. . . wone, _s._ custom, xxi. . wones, _s. pl._ dwellings, xx. . woneth, _pr. s._ dwells, xxiv. ; wonneth, ii. . wonne, _pp._ won, xvi. . wonning, _s._ abode, vii. . wood, _adj._ mad, ii. , , , ; xviii. . woodbind, _s._ woodbine, xx. . woode, _s._ _an error for_ weede, weed, iii. . see note. woodnesse, _s._ madness, vi. ; xviii. . wook, _ pt. s._ awoke, xxi. . worch, _pr. pl._ work, ii. . word, _s._ motto, xxi. , , ; wordes, _pl._ xxi. . world, _s._ great quantity, xx. ; a thing worth the world, xxi. . worship, _s._ honour, xiv. . worsted, _s._ worsted, ii. . worthyed, _pp._ honoured, i. i. . . wost, _ pr. s._ knowest, xviii. ; wottest, i. i. . . wowe, _v._ woo, xxiv. . woweth, _pr. pl._ move, i. ii. . . _put for_ waweth; and properly singular. wox, _ pt. s._ became, i. i. . ; grew, xvii. ; woxen, _pp._ i. iii. . . wraikful, _adj._ vengeful, xvii. . wrait, _pt. s._ wrote, xvii. . wraith, _s._ wroth, xvii. . wrak, _s._ vengeance, xvii. . wrall, _pr. pl._ pervert, ii. . cf. m.e. _wrawe_, perverse. wranglen, _pr. pl._ wrangle, ii. . wrapped, _pp._ involved; _in be w._, been mixed up with, v. . wreche, _s._ misery, i. i. . ; vengeance, viii. . wreke, _v._ avenge, xxiv. ; _pp._ viii. ; wreche, _pr. pl. subj._ x. . wrenne, _s._ wren, ix. ; wren, xxiv. . wrethe, _s._ a wreath, garland, i. iii. . . wringing, _pres. pt._ wringing (wringing wet), xx. . writhen, _pp._ wreathed, twined, xx. . wro, _s._ corner, ii. . icel. _r[=a]_. wrocht, _pp._ wrought, made, xvii. . wry, _adj._ deformed, xxiv. . wrye, _v._ turn aside, xvi. . wryeth, _pr. s._ disguises, i. ii. . . wrything, _s._ twisting, turning aside, error, rebellion, x. . wyde-where, _adv._ far and wide, i. ii. . . wynde, _s._ breath, xvi. . wynde, _ pr. s. subj._ wind, go, ix. . wynding,_ s._ envelopment (in snow) (?), i. i. . . wyr, _s._ wire, i. iii. . . wyr-drawer, _s._ wire-drawer, i. iii. . . wyte, _s._ blame, viii. ; ix. . wyte, _ger._ to blame, i. iii. . ; ii. ; xvii. ; _ pr. s._ blame (for it), viii. ; _imp. s._ blame (for), i. iii. . ; _imp. pl._ ii. ; v. . y, _s._ eye, xvi. ; xx. ; xxiv. , ; _at y_, in appearance, xiv. . yaf, _pt. s._ gave, ix. . yall, _v._ yell, ii. , . yate, _s._ gate, xxi. ; _pl._ ii. . y-be, _pp._ been, xviii. ; xx. . y-bore, _pp._ born, xvi. . y-brent, _pp._ burnt, ii. ; y-brend, ii. . y-builde, _v._ build (_or pp._ build), ii. . y-called, _pp._ named, viii. . y-chased, _pp._ chased, xvi. . y-cleped, _pp._ called, i. iii. . . y-dampned, _pp._ damned, ii. . ydel; _in y._, in vain, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . y-dight, _pp._ dressed, ii. . y-don, _pp._ made, xx. . ye, yea, i. i. . . yË, _s._ eye, ix. . yede, _ pt. s._ went, viii. ; _pt. s._ i. i. . ; xx. ; _pt. pl._ xx. , . yef, _pr. pl._ give, ii. . yeftes, _s. pl._ gifts, bribes, i. i. . . yelde, _ger._ to pay, x. ; _v._ yield, render, ii. ; _pr. s. subj._ may (he) repay, xxi. ; _pr. pl. subj._ may yield, i. iii. . . yeldinge, _s._ yielding, giving, i. iii. . . yelke, _s._ yolk, hence centre, nucleus, i. iii. . . yen, _s. pl._ eyes, xxiv. , . yerde, _s._ rod, i. ii. . ; x. ; correction, xxiv. . yern, _ger._ to earn, xxiv. . yerne, _adv._ quickly; _as y._, very quickly, i. ii. . ; yern, eagerly, xxiv. . yet, _s._ gate, xvii. . yeve, _ pr. s._ give, xi. ; _ pr. pl._ iii. ; _pr. pl._ i. i. _pr._ ; _pp._ xviii. ; xxiv. . yever, _s._ giver, i. iii. . , ; iii. . yexinge, _s._ sobbing, outburst (of grief), i. i. . . y-fed, _pp._ fed, xxiv. . y-fere, _adv._ together, in company, ix. , ; xi. . y-feyned, _pp._ feigned, xviii. . y-furthered, _pp._ advanced, viii. . y-fyned, _pp._ refined, xiii. . y-grave, _pp._ buried, xvi. . y-grounded, _pp._ rooted, i. ii. . . y-gurd, _pp._ girt, i.e. ready, ii. . y-handled, _pp._ handled, treated of, i. ii. . . y-herd, _pp._ heard, xviii. . y-heried, _pp._ praised, xxiv. . y-kend, _pp._ taught, ii. ; known, ii. . yle, _s._ isle, i. i. . ; v. ; vi. . y-lost, _pp._ lost, vii. . y-lyke, _adv._ alike, equally, xviii. . y-mad, _pp._ made, viii. . y-meynt, _pp._ mingled, viii. . ynde, _adj. pl._ blue, ix. . y-nempned, _pp._ named, i. i. . . y-nomen, _pp._ taken up, ii. . y-now, _adj._ enough, ii. , ; _pl._ (men) enough, i. i. . . yok, _s._ yoke, xviii. . yokkit, _pp._ yoked, xvii. . yolden, _pp._ yielded, i. i. . ; returned, i. i. . ; repaid, i. iii. . . yon, _adj._ yonder, yon, that, xvii. . youthheid, _s._ time of youth, xvii. . yove, _ pt. s._ gave, xxiv. . y-passed, _pp._ past, viii. . y-pent, _pp._ pent, ii. ; fastened, ii. . y-poudred, _pp._ besprinkled, xviii. . y-rent, _pp._ torn, ii. . ys, _s._ ice, viii. ; yse, xvii. . yse-shoklis, _s. pl._ icicles, xvii. . y-set, _pp._ appointed, xvi. . y-shoned, _pp._ shunned, i. ii. . . y-slayn, _pp._ slain, viii. . y-soght, _pp._ importuned, v. . y-sped, _pp._ granted, xxiv. . y-stocked, _pp._ fastened as in the stocks, i. i. . . y-stope, _pp._ advanced, xxiv. . y-take, _pp._ taken, ii. . y-thee, _v._ prosper, xviii. . y-tourned, _pp._ turned, i. i. . . y-tyed, _pp._ tied, v. . yvÈ-lefe, _s._ ivy-leaf, i. iii. . . yuel-spekers, _s. pl._ evil-speakers, i. i. . . y-whet, _pp._ whetted, v. . y-wis, _adv._ verily, i. i. . . y-woned, _pp._ dwelt, xxiv. . y-wonne, _pp._ won, v. . y-wounded, _pp._ wounded, viii. . y-wrought, _pp._ made, xx. . * * * * * index of names. aaron, x. . abraham, i. i. . . achilles, viii. . acrisius, i. i. . . acteon, actaeon, viii. . adam, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; v. , . admete, admetus, xxiv. . adon, adonis, viii. ; adoun, viii. . albion, v. ; xxviii. . alceste, alcestis, ix. ; xii. ; xxiv. . alcmenia, alcmene, xxiv. . alexander, i. iii. . ; ii. ; alisaundre, i. ii. . ; iv. ; alisander, i. i. _pr._ ; iv. ; _gen._ xii. . aleyn, alain chartier, xvi. . annelida, xxi. ; anelida, xxiv. . antichrist, ii. , ; iii. ; _gen._ ii. . antigone, ix. . antiochus, vii. . antiopa, xxiv. . antonius, viii. ; antony, xxi. ; xxiv. . arcite, viii. , ; xxi. ; xxiv. . ariadne, ix. . aristotel, i. iii. . ; i. iii. . ; aristotle, i. i. _pr._ , ; i. ii. . ; i. ii. . . arteys, artois, xxiv. . artour, arthur, i. ii. . ; arthus, iv. ; _gen._ xii. . athalans, atalanta, viii. . athenes, athens, i. i. . . aurora, ix. ; x. . austen, st. augustine, i. ii. . ; _gen._ iii. . balthasar, belshazzar, vii. . bedford, duke of, vii. (_title_). belial, ii. . benet, st. benedict, ii. , . boece, boethius, i. i. _pr._ ; i. ii. . ; vii. . boreas, north wind, i. i. _pr._ ; ix. . bretayne, britain, vii. ; xxiv. ; xxix. ; britayne, i. iii. . . burgoyne, _s._ burgundy, xxiv. . buserus, busiris, i. ii. . . calchas, xvii. . caliope, calliope, ix. ; xxiv. . calixto, callisto, xxiv. . cambrige, cambridge, xxiv. . canacee, ix. . cartÁgË, carthage, v. ; xxiv. . cassodore, cassiodorus, iv. . catoun, cato, xii. ; dionysius cato, xii. ; _gen._ i. iii. . . caynes, cain's, i. ii. . . cesar, julius caesar, xii. . charles, charlemagne, xii. ; charlemayne, iv. . chaucer, vii. , ; ix. ; xvii. ; xxix. . cipryde, venus, ix. . (_venus and cipryde_, venus and the cyprian goddess, really one and the same.) citharea, venus, xxiv. , ; cithera, v. ; citherè, xxiv. . citharee, cythera, _but an error for_ cithaeron, xxiv. . see note. citheron, cithaeron, xxiv. . (see l. .) clarence, duke of, vii. (_title_). cleo, clio, x. ; clio, ix. . cleopatre, cleopatra, ix. ; xxiv. ; cleopatras, xxi. ; _gen._ xiii. . colkos, colchis, viii. . collo, i. ii. . . constantyn, constantine, iv. ; vi. . cresseid, xvii. . cupido, cupid, v. ; cupyde, viii. ; _gen._ viii. . cynthia, the moon, xvii. . dalida, delilah, xiii. ; xxiv. . dane, danaë, i. i. . ; xxiv. . daphne, viii. . david, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; &c. demophoon, demophon, xxi. ; _spelt_ demophon, viii. ; demophoun, viii. . diane, diana, xvii. ; xx. ; xxiv. ; dyane, viii. . dido, v. ; xxiv. ; dydo, ix. . diomeid, diomede, xvii. . dives, ii. . dominiks, _gen._ st. dominic's, iii. . dorigene, dorigen, ix. . edward, edward iii, i. i. _pr._ . egypte, egypt, i. i. . . eleynes, helen's, xii. . elicon, helicon, xxiv. . eneas, aeneas, i. i. . ; v. ; xxiv. ; enee, viii. ; ix. . englissh, english, i. iii. . . englond, england, xxiv. ; engëlond, iv. . eoy, eous, xvii. . esdram, ezra, i. ii. . . ethios, aethon, xvii. . europa, xxiv. ; _gen._ i. i. . . eve, i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; v. , . fevrier, february, ix. . flora, goddess of flowers, viii. ; xvii. ; xx. . fraunce, france, i. i. _pr._ ; xxiv. . fraunces, st. francis, iii. ; _gen._ iii. . gabriel, x. . gades, cadiz, in spain (see note), i. i. _pr._ ; viii. . galfrid, geoffrey de vinsauf, xxiv. . see note. garter, _s._ the garter, vi. ; (knights of the), xx. . gedeon, gideon, x. . georges, st. george's, vi. . gloucestre, duke of, vii. (_title_). godfray, godfray of bouillon, iv. . gower, iv. . grece, greece, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; xxiv. . gregory, st., iii. . grisilde, griselda, ix. ; griseldes, xii. . _see_ the clerkes tale. hanibal, hannibal, i. i. . . hawes, havise (?), xxi. . hector, i. i. . ; i. ii. . ; iv. ; xii. . helayne, helen, ix. ; heleyne, i. i. . . helisee, elysium, xxiv. . henry curtmantil, henry ii. (see the note), i. ii. . ; henry (iv.), iv. ; _gen._ iv. . hercules, i. ii. . ; viii. ; _gen._ i. i. _pr._ . herodes, herod, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . hester, esther, ix. ; hestre, xii. . hipsiphilee, hypsipyle, ix. . holand, holland, xxiv. . hugest, _for_ hengist (?), i. ii. . . see note. inde, india, viii. ; xxi. . ipomenes, hippomanes, viii. . isaie, isaiah, x. ; _gen._ x. . italy, xxiv. . jacobes, _s._ jacob's, i. i. . . james, st. james, iii. ; xxi. . japhetes, japhet's, i. ii. . . jason, i. i. . ; viii. ; ix. ; jasoun, v. . jewes, _pl._ jews, i. ii. . . johan, st. john, viii. ; john, ii. ; _gen._ ii. ; king john, i. ii. . . john de meun, v. . joseph, x. . josuË, joshua, iv. ; xii. . jove, jupiter, xxiv. , ; jovis, i. ii. . . judas, ii. ; iii. . judas machabee, judas maccabeus, xii. . judith, ix. ; xii. . julian, saint, xxi. . see note. julius cesar, i. i. . ; i. iii. . ; julius, iv. ; vii. . jupiter, i. i. . , ; i. ii. . ; juppiter, xvii. ; _gen._ i. i. . . justinians, justinian's, vi. . laban, i. i. . . lachases, lachesis, i. i. . . lamuall, lamuel, ii. . londenoys, londoner, i. i. . . london, i. i. . ; i. i. . . lothe, _s._ lot, i. i. . ; _gen._ i. i. . . lucifer, ii. , , , ; viii. . lucrece, lucretia, ix. . lya, leah, i. i. . . machabeus, iv. . marces, _gen._ of mars, i. ii. . . marcia catoun, marcia, daughter of cato, ix. ; xii. . margarit, margaret, i. i. . , &c.; margarete, v. ; x. . mars, i. i. . ; xvii. . maximian, the poet, xxiv. . maximien, maximianus, ii. . medea, v. ; medee, viii. ; ix. ; xii. . melpomene, the muse, xxiv. . mercurius, mercury, xvii. ; _gen._ i. ii. . ; mercury, i. ii. . ; xxiv. . metamorphosose, ovid's metamorphoses, xxiv. . see note. minerva, xxiv. . mirre, myrrha, viii. . naples, xxiv. . narcisus, narcissus, viii. . naverne, navarre, xxiv. . nero, i. ii. . ; i. ii. . ; i. ii. . ; ii. , ; vii. . niobe, viii. . noe, noah, i. i. . ; noës, _gen._ i. i. . ; i. ii. . . normandes, _s. pl._ normans', i. ii. . . novembre, november, i. i. . . octobre, october, i. i. . . ovyde, ovid, v. , ; xxiv. . palamides, palamedes, viii. . palemoun, viii. . pallas, i. ii. . . parcas, _s. pl._ the fates, viii. . paris, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; i. i. . . paulyn, paulinus, i. iii. . , . see note. pegacÈ, _s._ pegasus, viii. . penelope, ix. ; xii. . perdicas, perdiccas, i. ii. . ; i. iii. . . pernaso, _s._ parnassus, viii. . peros, pyroëis, xvii. . peter, ii. , ; _gen._ ii. . phaeton, phaethon, xvii. . pharisees, _pl._ iii. . phebus, phoebus, viii. , ; xvii. ; the sun, xvii. ; xx. ; xxii. ; (an emblem of the holy ghost), x. ; _gen._ viii. , ; xxiv. . philegoney, phlegon, xvii. . philobone, xxiv. , , . philogenet, xxiv. , . phyllis, ix. ; xxi. . piramus, pyramus, viii. . plato, i. ii. . . pluto, xxiv. . policene, polyxena, ix. ; _gen._ xii. . pompeus, pompey, i. iii. . . porrus, porus, i. iii. . . poule, paul, i. iii. . . prester john, xx. . priamus, _gen._ of priam, i. i. . . pycardie, picardy, xxiv. . rachel, i. i. . . romance of the rose, v. . romayne, roman, i. i. . ; i. ii. . . rome, i. i. . . rosamounde, xi. ; xiii. . rosiall, xxiv. , , , . salamoun, solomon, i. i. . ; iv. ; v. ; xiii. ; xiv. . sampsoun, samson, v. ; xiii. ; xiv. . sarazins, _s. pl._ saracens, iv. . satan, ii. . saturn, xvii. ; _gen._ i. ii. . . scogan, henry, vii. (_title_). selande, _s._ zealand, i. i. . . see note, p. . senek, seneca, xii. . septembre, september, xxi. . siloË, siloam, i. ii. . . silvester, pope, iv. . sion, x. . sonday, sunday, i. ii. . . spain, xxiv. . styx, considered as 'the pit of hell,' i. i. _pr._ . sunamyte, shunammite, x. . see kings, iv. . thebes, viii. . theseus, viii. . thomas, st. thomas, ii. . tisbee, thisbe, xxi. . titus livius, livy, xx. . tristram, viii. . troilus, i. iii. . ; xii. ; xvii. ; xxiv. . troy, i. i. . ; i. i. . ; v. . tuball, tubal, xxiv. . tullius, cicero, xii. ; xxiv. . tullius hostilius, vii. . tytan, _s._ the sun, viii. ; ix. ; xvii. ; (as an emblem of jesus), x. . urye, uriah, i. i. . ; _gen._ i. i. . . valentyne, saint, ix. , . veneriens, _s. pl._ servants of venus, i. ii. . . venus, xvii. ; (the planet), viii. ; _gen._ viii. . virgil, xxiv. . vulcanus, vulcan, viii. . wodestok, woodstock, xviii. . zedeoreys (see note), i. i. . . zepherus, zephyr, viii. . * * * * * index to some subjects explained in the notes. a large number of the notes refer to explanations of peculiar words and to proper names; the references to these will be found in the glossarial index and in the index of names. a few other subjects of more general interest are also discussed; the chief of these are indexed below. the references are to the pages. arbours described, . bell, book, and candle, cursing by, . birds singing the 'hours,' . _burly_, etymology of, . burning of heretics, , , . cardinal virtues, . chaucer's death alluded to, . chaucer's boëthius, alluded to, , - , - , - , - , - . -- anelida, , . -- book of the duchess, , . -- canterbury tales, , , &c. -- compleynt of venus, - . -- house of fame, imitated, - . -- legend of good women, , , , - , , - , . -- merciless beautè, . -- rom. of the rose, - , - , , , . -- troilus, , , , , , - , - , , . christine de pisan, . creeping to the cross, . cupid's arrows, - . _determission_ (a false form), . elements, the four, , . final cause, . forget-me-not, . friars, the, - . geoffrey de vinsauf, . gower's blindness, . griffin, the, . hengist, perhaps alluded to, . hercules, pillars of, . 'hours,' canonical, - . knot, the, defined, . lent, three divisions of, . lepers, , . lollards, the, , , . london, election of the mayor, . lydgate's temple of glass, imitated, , &c. margaret, meaning of, - , ; derivation of, . maze described, . _me_, for _men_ = _man_, . mottoes worn on sleeves, . pearl, virtues of the, , . pelican, the, . piers plowman, imitated, - , - , , - . popes, schism of the, . prester john, . proverbs, book of (quoted), - . proverbs:--a cipher in augrim, ; against the hair, ; all day fails the fool's thought, ; he that hews above his head, the chips fall in his eye, , ; it may rime, but it accords not, ; silence gives consent, ; the habit makes not the monk, ; when bale is highest, boot is nighest, ; _fallere, flere_, &c., , ; _vento quid levius_, &c., . remember-me, . romance of the rose, - , - , , , . st. julian's paternoster, - . sun, four horses of the, ; greater than the earth, . virgin, five joys of the, . _web and pin_, . week, names of the days of the, - . worthies, the nine, , , . zealand, . the end. * * * * * chaucerian and other pieces _list of subscribers._ adam, p., esq., kidderminster. adams, samuel, esq., new barnet. ainger, rev. canon, hampstead, london, n.w. aldenham, the right hon. lord. alderson, mrs., worksop. allbutt, prof. dr. t. clifford, cambridge. allen, rev. canon, shrewsbury. allen, e. g., bookseller, london, w.c. alsop, j. w., esq., birkenhead. anderson, a., esq., m.d., mirfield. anderson, j. r., esq., keswick. angus & robertson, booksellers, sydney, n.s.w. (_two copies_). archer-hind, r. d., esq., m.a., trinity college, cambridge. armour, g. a., esq., chicago, u.s.a. armours, f. j., esq., glasgow. army & navy co-operative society, london, s.w. (_four copies_). asher & co., booksellers, berlin (_eight copies_). athenaeum club, (the), london, s.w. athenaeum library, (the), liverpool. auddy, sumbhoo chunder, esq., calcutta. babcock, l. h., esq., new york city, u.s.a. bacchus, rev. f., edgbaston. bacon, his honor judge, london, w. bailey, rev. j. g., m.a., ll.d., f.s.a., rochester. baillie, a. w. m., esq., london, w.c. baillie's institution free library, glasgow. bain, james, bookseller, london, s.w. (_seven copies_). baird, j. g. a., esq., m.p., london, s.w. baker, j., & son, booksellers, clifton (_two copies_). balcarres, lord, m.p., wigan. barbeau, a., esq. barry, william, esq., b.c.s., (retired) strathavon, n.b. bartleet, rev. s. e., m.a., f.s.a., gloucester. bartlett, w. h., & co., booksellers, london, e.c. barwell, rev. a. h. sanxay, worthing. beauchamp, the right hon. earl, malvern link. beljame, prof. alexandre, university of paris. bell, h. j., esq., london, s.w. bell, sheriff russell, campbeltown, n.b. bellars, w. b., esq., limpsfield, surrey. bemrose, sir h. h., m.p., derby. bennett, r. a., esq., edgbaston. bentinck-smith, w. f., esq., christ's college, cambridge. bernays, albert e., esq., trinity college, cambridge. besant, sir walter, hampstead, london, n.w. bevan, g. l., esq., london, w. bibliotheek van de rijks-universiteit te groningen. bibliothÈque albert-dumont, paris. bibliothÈque de l'École normale supÉrieure. bibliothÈque de l'universitÉ de bordeaux. bibliothÈque de l'universitÉ de paris. bibliothÈque de l'universitÉ de poitiers. bibliothÈque nationale, paris. bickers & son, booksellers, london, w.c. (_thirty copies_). billson, c. j., esq., m.a., leicester. bilsland, william, esq., glasgow. binney, rev. m. f., sutton, lancashire. birmingham free libraries; reference department. birmingham library. black, rev. c. m., edinburgh. blackburn, prof., fort william, n.b. blackwell, b. h., bookseller, oxford (_six copies_). boardman, a., bookseller, bishop's stortford. bois, h. g., esq., colombo, ceylon. bolton, t. h., esq., manchester. bolton subscription library. bond, e., esq., m.p., london, n.w. bootle free library. borland, william, esq., glasgow. boston athenaeum, boston, mass., u.s.a. boston public library, boston, mass., u.s.a. boulter, h. b., esq., f.r.c.s., richmond, surrey. bradley, prof., university, glasgow. brasenose college library, oxford. brear, thomas, & co., ltd., booksellers, bradford. brett, charles h., esq., belfast. brierley, h., esq., bury. brighton public library. bristol museum reference library. brockhaus, f. a., bookseller, leipzig (_three copies_). brockhaus, f. a., bookseller, london, e.c. brocklebank, thomas, esq., irton hall, cumberland. broke, p. v., esq., eton college. brooke, herbert otto wildman goodwyn, esq., i.c.s. brooke, miss maud, st. john's wood, london, n.w. brooke, rev. stopford a., m.a., london, w. brooke, thomas, esq., f.s.a., huddersfield. brophy, m. m., esq., bloomsbury, london, w.c. brown, john taylor, esq., ll.d., edinburgh. brown, j. t. t., esq., glasgow. brown, william, bookseller, edinburgh (_seven copies_). brown, rev. canon william haig, ll.d., charterhouse, godalming. browning, oscar, esq., king's college, cambridge. bruer, r. t. hamilton, esq., dornoch, n.b. brushfield, t. n., esq., m.d., budleigh salterton. bryn mawr college, pennsylvania, u.s.a. buckley, mrs. abel, andenshaw, near manchester. buckley, r. j., esq., heaton chapel, near manchester. buffalo library, buffalo, u.s.a. buller, g. c., esq., london, e.c. bumby, fred. e., esq., university college, nottingham. bumpus, j. & e., ltd., booksellers, london, w. (_six copies_). bunce, j. thackray, esq., edgbaston. burne-jones, sir edward, bart., west kensington, london, w. burnside, h., bookseller, blackheath, london, s.e. burrows, dr., hampstead, london, n.w. butler, a. j., esq., weybridge, surrey. butterworth & co., booksellers, london, e.c. byrne, the right hon. mr. justice. california state library, sacramento, cal., u.s.a. carey, f. s., esq., liverpool. carlingford, the right hon. lord, bath. carlisle, the right hon. the earl of, york. carslake, l. b., esq., london, e.c. carswell, robert, esq., c.a., glasgow. carte, lucas d'oyly, esq., london, w.c. carter, j. m., esq., eton college. carter, t. a., esq., stratford-on-avon. case, robert h., esq., b.a., liverpool. caudwell, job, esq., f.r.s.l., wandsworth, london, s.w. cecil, henry, esq., bournemouth. chadwick, s. j., esq., dewsbury. champneys, a. c., esq., marlborough college. chance, f., esq., london, s.e. chapman, j. j., esq., whitby. chapple, e., bookseller, plymouth. cheney, g., esq., f.s.a., london, s.w. chester free public library; t. m. wilcock, esq., librarian. cheyne, ernest, esq., west norwood, london, s.e. christ church library, oxford. churchill, j., esq., shortlands, kent. cincinnati public library. clapham, john, esq., j.p., manchester. clare college library, cambridge. clark, prof. e. c., cambridge. clark, oscar w., esq., m.b. oxon., gloucester. clark, w., esq., d.c.l., f.r.s.c., trinity college, toronto. clarke, w. h. d., esq., london, e.c. claye, capt. h. sandford, macclesfield. coats, prof. joseph, glasgow. cobbold, felix t., esq., felixstowe, suffolk. cock, alfred, esq., q.c., london, w. cohen, f., bookseller, bonn. colquhoun, e., esq., london, w. columbia university library, new york. colville, h. ker, esq., market drayton. cooke, john, esq., m.a., dublin. cooper, miss a., london, w. cornell university library, ithaca, n.y., u.s.a. corner, samuel, esq., b.a., b.sc., west nottingham (_two copies_). cornish bros., booksellers, birmingham. corpus christi college library, cambridge. corpus christi college library, oxford. crabbie of duncow, j. m., esq., dumfries. cracroft, r. w., esq., temple, london, e.c. crampton, w. t., esq., leeds. crawford, robert, esq., m.d., glasgow. crewe, the right hon. earl. cross, j. h., esq., hammersmith, london, w. crowther, alfred, esq., huddersfield. cruickshank, j. w., esq., haslemere. cummings, william h., esq., f.s.a., west dulwich, london, s.e. cunliff, r. j., esq., m.a., ll.b., glasgow. currie, john, esq., glasgow. da costa, j. m., esq., philadelphia, u.s.a. dale, sir david. dale, j., & co., booksellers, bradford. dalton, rev. john neale, m.a., f.s.a., canon of st. george's, windsor. darwin, w. e., esq., southampton. davey, right hon. lord justice. davidson, r., esq., port elizabeth, south africa. davidson, thomas, esq., edinburgh. davies, j. m., esq., f.s.s., glasgow. davies, w. r., esq. davis, j., esq., holloway, london, n. deighton, bell & co., booksellers, cambridge (_nine copies_). denny, a. & f., booksellers, london, w.c. (_seven copies_). dick, james c., esq., newcastle-on-tyne. dick, william, esq., edinburgh. dickinson, r., esq., dudley. dillon, john, esq., m.p., dublin. dixon, joseph, esq., london, e.c. doak, rev. andrew, m.a., aberdeen. dobbie, prof. j. j., m.a., university college, bangor. doggett, hugh g., esq., clifton. doncaster, j. h., esq., b.a., sheffield. dorey, m., esq., dublin. douglas & foulis, booksellers, edinburgh (_six copies_). downing, william, esq., chaucer head library, birmingham. drake, r. i., bookseller, eton (_four copies_). dresden public library. drexel institute, philadelphia, u.s.a. duff, prof. j. wight, durham college of science, newcastle-on-tyne. dulau & co., booksellers, london, w. (_two copies_). duncan, hon. george. duncan, w. a., esq., woolton, liverpool. dunn, mrs. colmore, london, w. dunn, miss sara r., thirsk. durham, the right rev. lord bishop of. earle, miss, newnham college, cambridge. eccles, miss jane helen, london, s.w. edinburgh free public library. edwards, francis, bookseller, marylebone, london, w. (_two copies_). edwards, john, esq., glasgow. ellershaw, rev. h., m.a., durham. elliot, andrew, bookseller, edinburgh. ellis, f. s., esq., torquay. englisches seminar der universitÄt, grätz, austria. englisches seminar der universitÄt, strassburg. evans, h. a., esq., chorlton-cum-hardy, manchester. everard, c. h., esq., east grinstead. exeter college, oxford, the rev. the rector of. exeter college library, oxford. faber, reginald s., esq., london, n.w. faculty of procurators (the), glasgow. fairbairn, rev. a. m., m.a., d.d., ll.d., principal of mansfield college, oxford. fane, w. d., esq., grantham. fanshawe, h. c., esq., lahore, india. farwell, george, esq., q.c., london, w. faunthorpe, rev. j. p., whitelands college, chelsea, london, s.w. fawn, j., & son, booksellers, bristol. finlay, sir robert b., q.c., london, w. firth college, sheffield. fisher, w. e. garratt, esq., richmond, surrey. flecker, rev. w. h., d.c.l., cheltenham. fleming, george, esq., c.b., ll.d., f.r.c.v.s., combe martin, n. devon. fletcher, charles e., esq., maidstone. flower, wickham, esq., london, s.w. ford, hon. w. c., washington, d.c., u.s.a. fÖrster, prof. dr. max, university, bonn. foster, prof. gregory, london, w. fowler, h. w., esq., sedbergh. fox, mrs. hamilton, keston, kent. fox, f. f., esq., gloucester. fox, j. r., esq., london, e.c. frapnell, alfred, esq., clifton. fraser, john, esq., liverpool. frazer, j. g., esq., trinity college, cambridge. freeman, rev. j., wakefield. freshfield, w. d., esq., london, w. fry, miss, clifton. fuller-maitland, j. a., esq., london, w. gardner, dr., royton, near manchester. gaye, arthur, esq., ealing, london, w. gebhardt, prof. von, leipzig. geneva public library. george's sons, booksellers, bristol. gerich, f. e., esq., beckenham. gerold & co., booksellers, vienna. gilbert & field, booksellers, london, e.c. (_five copies_). gillford, george, esq., redland, bristol. gilmour, t. l., esq., west hampstead, london, n.w. gilray, prof. thomas, m.a., university of otago, dunedin, n.z. ginn, s. r., esq., cambridge. goldsmith, g. p., esq., m.d., bedford. gollancz, i., esq., christ's college, cambridge. gordon, rev. j. m., redhill, surrey. goulden, w. e., bookseller, canterbury. gover, w. s., esq., london, e.c. gowans, adam l., esq., glasgow. greenfield, t. c., esq., enfield. greenwood, mrs., withington, manchester. greg, w. w., esq., trinity college, cambridge. gregory, h. e., esq., hurst green, sussex. grierson, prof. h. j. c., m.a., aberdeen. griffith, g., esq., harrow. grossherzogliche bibliothek, weimar. grove, rev. w. h., rochester. guildhall library, london, e.c. gully, the right hon. w. c., speaker of the house of commons. gunn, thomas butler, esq., banbury. gunn, w., esq., edinburgh. gutch, mrs., york. guy, robert, esq., glasgow. haigh, f., esq., leeds. haines, gregory, esq., putney, london, s.w. hales, rev. c. t., newton-le-willows, yorks. halewood, a., bookseller, preston. hall, f. j., esq., wavertree. hall, joseph, esq., m.a., manchester. hallworth, arthur, esq., manchester. hamilton, w., esq., liverpool. hannen, h. a., esq., ashburton. harben, h. a., esq., london, w. harrassowitz, otto, bookseller, leipzig (_three copies_). harrington, dr., birkenhead. harris, william, esq., j.p., edgbaston. harrison, miss, york. hartland, e. sidney, esq., gloucester. harvard college library, mass., u.s.a. harvey, h. c., esq., ryton-on-tyne. harvey, rev. ralph, m.a., cork. hatchards, booksellers, piccadilly, london (_twelve copies_). haupt, prof. dr., giessen. hawthorn, j., bookseller, uppingham. heath, prof. helme, rev. robert, hassocks. heywood, john, bookseller, manchester (_two copies_). higgins, a. p., esq., downing college, cambridge. hill, george w., esq., glasgow. hill, mrs. james s., w. hampstead, london, n.w. hirschfeld bros., booksellers, london, e.c. hitchman, john, bookseller, birmingham. hodgson, t. t., esq. hÖlder, a., esq., vienna. hollingworth, miss, london, w. hollins, f., esq., eastbourne. holmes, timothy, esq., london, w. hore, j. c., esq., highbury hill, london, n. horne, a. b., esq., temple, london, e.c. hornell, r., esq., london, e.c. horsfall, t. c., esq., j.p., macclesfield. how, walter w., esq., m.a., merton college, oxford. hubbart, h. e., esq., nottingham. hudson, rev. c. h. bickerton, m.a., magdalen college, oxford. hughes, w. r., esq., f.l.s., birmingham. hughes, dr., plymouth. hull subscription library. hunter, r. w., bookseller, edinburgh. hurst, g. h. j., esq., eton college. hutchison, rev. john, d.d., edinburgh. inner temple library, london. irving, c. s., esq., tiverton. jacks, william, esq., m.p., glasgow. jackson, c. h., esq., london, e.c. jackson, rev. j., bampton, oxon. jacobs, joseph, esq., west hampstead, london, n.w. james, mrs. c. h., merthyr tydvil. jameson, t., esq., london, w.c. jekyll, colonel, london, w. jenkins, mrs., chalfont st. peter's, bucks. jenkins, sir james, k.c.b., plymouth. jesus college library, cambridge. joachim, h. h., esq., m.a., oxford. john, e. t., esq., middlesbrough. johns hopkins university, baltimore, u.s.a. johnson, c. p., esq., london, w. johnson, e., bookseller, cambridge. johnson, h., esq., bath. johnson, wilfrid r., esq., rochester. johnston, g. p., bookseller, edinburgh. johnstone, p. de lacy, esq., m.a., edinburgh. jonas, edward a., esq., henderson, ky., u.s.a. jones, h. r., esq., richmond, surrey. jones, r. m., esq., m.a., belfast. jones, w. lewis, esq., m.a., university college, bangor. jones, william, bookseller, duke st., cardiff. joy, a., esq., london, s.w. karkeck, paul q., esq., torquay. kenrick, archibald, esq., edgbaston. kenyon, george, esq., london, s.w. ker, w. p., esq., london, w.c. kershaw, a. h., esq., bristol. keys, h. w., esq., forest officer, dhulia, w. khandesh, india. king's college, cambridge. king's inns library, dublin. kirberger & kesper, booksellers, amsterdam (_two copies_). kirkcudbright institute library. kitchen, t. m., esq., farnham. kitchin, george, esq., bromley, kent. koehler's (k. f.) antiquarium, leipzig. koeppel, prof. dr., strassburg. lake forest university library, u.s.a. lancashire independent college, manchester. landor, r. henry, esq., b.a., ll.m., rugeley. lange, r., esq., st. petersburg. larmuth, dr., manchester. laurie, prof. s. s., ll.d., edinburgh. lawley, hon. & rev. s., exminster. lawrence, a. j., bookseller, rugby. layton, rev. w. e., m.a., f.s.a., worcester park, surrey. leeds library. legislative library, toronto. leigh, w. b., esq., heaton mersey. le soudier, h., bookseller, paris. library company, philadelphia, u.s.a. library of parliament, ottawa. linging, edward w., esq., london, e.c. linton, frederick t. c., esq., edinburgh. littleboy, miss anna l., london, w.c. liveing, prof. g. d., st. john's college, cambridge. liverpool free public library. locke, cyril l. c., esq., winchfield. lowe, j. w., esq., temple, london, e.c. lyster, t. w., esq., dublin. macandrew, j., esq., london, n.w. macandrew, william, esq., colchester. mac brayne, d., esq., jun., glasgow. mc gee, w., bookseller, dublin. mc gill, h. j., esq., elstree. mc ilwraith, william, esq., wolverhampton. mack, rev. a. w. bradshaw, swords. mackay, rev. g. s., doune, n.b. mckelvie, miss, lamlash, arran. mckerrow, r. b., esq., london, s.w. mackey, a. j., esq., twyford, berks. mackinlay, j. t. c., esq., pollokshields, glasgow. maclean, rev. m., b.d., brodick, arran. mclintock, robert, esq., liverpool. macmillan & bowes, booksellers, cambridge (_twenty-four copies_). mcnicol, r. s., esq., glasgow. macniven & wallace, booksellers, edinburgh. macrory, edmund, esq., q.c., temple, london, e.c. madhowlal, chinoobhai, esq., ahmedabad, india. madras christian college library. magdalen college, the president of, oxford. magdalen college library, oxford. malcolm, r., esq., dollar. malden, h. e., esq., holmwood, surrey. manchester free library. manchester grammar school. manfield, sir philip, northampton. manley, f. e., esq., london, n. mann, james, esq., glasgow. marks, geoffrey, esq., london, w. marriott, w. k., esq., barking. marshall, j. w., esq., m.a., charterhouse, godalming. martel, l. o., esq., paris. martin, sir theodore, k.c.b., london, s.w. marwick, sir james d., ll.d., f.r.s.e., glasgow. maskelyne, n. story, esq., swindon. mason science college library, birmingham. mathieson, f. c., esq., hampstead, london, n.w. matthews & brooke, booksellers, bradford. matveieff, b., esq., london, w. melbourne public library. melven bros., booksellers, nairn. melville, right hon. viscount, lasswade, n.b. melville, mullen & slade, booksellers, melbourne (_two copies_). merchant taylors' school library, london, e.c. merton college library, oxford. metcalfe, reginald, esq., penrith. michell, william, esq., redruth, cornwall. middlemore, thomas, esq., j.p., london, w. middlesbrough free library. mill, miss, liverpool. miller, rev. w., ll.d., c.i.e., principal, christian college, madras. millson, rev. f. e., halifax. minshull & meeson, booksellers, chester. mitchell library (the), glasgow. moberly library, winchester. moir, james, esq., ll.d., aberdeen. montefiore, claude g., esq., london, w. (_two copies_). montgomery, james, bookseller, londonderry. morgan, john w., esq., glasgow. morison, a. j., esq., west dulwich, london, s.e. morison, john, esq., glasgow. morris, prof., melbourne. munro, thomas, esq., hamilton, n.b. murdoch, rev. alexander guthrie, m.a., b.d., wallacetown, ayr. murison, william, esq., m.a., aberdeen. nash, edmund, esq., m.d., notting hill, london, w. national library of ireland, dublin. nesbitt, a., esq., barnes. nettleford, f., esq., london, w.c. new, g., bookseller, eton. new haven free public library, new haven, u.s.a. new university club, london. new york public library. new york state library. newcastle-on-tyne public library. nicholson, prof. j., aberdeen. nicholson, prof. j. shield, edinburgh. noble, william, esq., liverpool. nock, lawrence frederick, esq., birmingham. normal seminary (the), glasgow. norwich free library. notcutt, h. clement, esq., south african college, cape town. nottingham central free public library. nutt, david, bookseller, london, w.c. (_five copies_). ogilvie, joseph, esq., ll.d., aberdeen. o'grady, standish hayes, esq., hon. litt. d. cantab., london, w. oldham free library. oliphant, t. l. kington, esq., auchterarder, n.b. oriel college library, oxford. ormerod, william, esq., j.p., todmorden, lancashire. orr, john f., esq., glasgow. owens college, manchester. oxford and cambridge club, london, s.w. oxford union society, oxford. parker, j., & co., booksellers, oxford (_two copies_). parkinson, john wilson, esq., tottenham. parry, c. hubert, esq., rustington, sussex. parsons, j. r., esq., yokohama, japan. passauvert, mons. a., st. petersburg. paterson, douglas, esq., m.a., melbourne. paterson, maurice, esq., ll.d., free church training college, edinburgh. paterson, william romaine, esq., glasgow. patterson, arthur j., esq., buda-pesth. pattin, dr. h. cooper, m.a., d.p.h., norwich. payne, f. j., esq., london, e.c. peabody institute, baltimore, u.s.a. pearce, w. r., esq., glasgow. pearse, h., bookseller, rochdale. pembroke college library, cambridge. penson, g. w., esq., london, w. peoria public library, ill., u.s.a. perkins, mrs. g. c., hartford, conn., u.s.a. perkins, o. t., esq., wellington college. permanent library (the), leicester. phinn, rev. c. p., watford. pinsent, hume c., esq., harborne, birmingham. pitman, rev. a. a. pittar, p. m., esq., london, s.w. platt, j. a., esq., m.a., london, w. pollock, sir frederick, bart., m.a., corpus christi college, oxford. ponsonby, e., bookseller, dublin. pooler, rev. charles knox, m.a., belfast. port elizabeth public library, south africa. porter, r. t., esq. portico library, manchester. poulter, r. c., bookseller, london, w.c. (_two copies_). power, h., esq., london, w. pratt institute, brooklyn, n.y., u.s.a. price, f. g. hilton, esq., f.s.a., london, s.w. proctor, r., esq. quaritch, bernard, bookseller, london, w. (_eight copies_). queen's college, belfast. queen's college, melbourne. queen's college library, oxford. quinn, m. t., esq., m.a., f.r.hist.s., london, s.w. radcliffe, f. m., esq., liverpool. raleigh, prof., university college, liverpool. reffitt-oldfield, j., esq., london, w.c. regnart, h. g., esq., cambridge. reichel, principal h.r., m.a., university college of north wales, bangor. renouf, e. m., bookseller, montreal. renshaw, w., esq., london, w. reynolds, miss clare, london, w. richards, f., esq., m.a., bath. richardson & co., booksellers, london, s.w. ridley, thomas d., esq., redcar. ripon, the most hon. the marquis of, k.g. ritchie, prof. william, south african college, cape town. rittenhouse club, philadelphia, u.s.a. robarts, n. f., esq., f.g.s., croydon. roberts, charles j., esq., b.a., folkestone. roberts, d. lloyd, esq., m.d., f.r.c.p., f.r.s. edin., manchester. roberts, sir owen, london, e.c. robertson & co., booksellers, melbourne (_two copies_). ross, alexander galt, esq., south kensington, london, s.w. ross, major-gen. a. g., indian staff corps, ealing. rowe, louis t., esq., hammersmith, london, w. rowley, prof. james, clifton. rowsell, hubert g., esq., london, w. royal asiatic society, bombay branch. royal dublin society library. royal library, the hague. rugby school temple reading room. rutherford, rev. w. gunion, westminster, london, s.w. ryan, charles, esq., brixton, london, s.w. sage, e. j., esq., stoke newington, london, n. st. benedict's abbey, fort augustus, inverness. st. charles college library. st. louis public library, u.s.a. st. peter's college library, westminster, london, s.w. saintsbury, prof., edinburgh. saltmarshe, e., esq. sampson low, marston & co., ltd., london, e.c. sanders, rev. francis, hoylake, cheshire. scarth, leveson, esq., bath. searth, h. w., esq., chislehurst. sephton, rev. j., liverpool. shaen, miss margaret j., kensington, london, w. shaw, miss, leeds. sheldon, edward w., esq., new york city. sheldon, r. p., esq., twyford by winchester. sherborne school library. sherratt & hughes, booksellers, manchester. shorter, c. k., esq., london, w. sibbald, w. aspinwall, esq., liscard, cheshire. simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., london, e.c. (_eight copies_). simpson, w. w., esq., whalley, lancashire. sinclair, robert, esq., florence. slack, j. bamford, esq., london, w.c. slater, a., esq., bescot. slater, j. a., esq., london, w.c. smith, arthur c., esq., finchley, london, n.w. smith, g. gregory, esq., m.a., university of edinburgh. smith, j., & son, booksellers, glasgow. smith, rev. canon r. travers, d.d., dublin. smith, w. f., esq., st. john's college, cambridge. smith, w. h., & son, london, w.c. snelgrove, a. g., esq., forest gate, essex. sotheby, major-gen. f. e., northampton. sotheran, h., & co., booksellers, london, w.c. (_two copies_). sowerby, t. b., esq. spooner, f., esq., m.a., bedford. squarey, a. t., esq., birkenhead. srinivasa, varadachari & co., booksellers, madras. stanford, e., bookseller, london, s.w. (_three copies_). stechert, g. e., bookseller, new york, u.s.a., (_two copies_). stenhouse, alexander, esq., glasgow. stewart, mrs. a. b., glasgow. stewart, c. hunter, esq., m.b., edinburgh. stewart, rev. g. wauchope, fraserburgh, n.b. stirling, hon. sir james, london, s.w. stopford-sackville, s. g., esq., thrapston. stride, mrs. arthur l., hatfield. strong, rev. t. b., m.a., christ church, oxford. stubbs, w. w., esq., dulwich college, london, s.e. swansea public library. swinburne, a., esq., putney, london, s.w. sydney free public library. sykes, a., esq., leeds. symington, james halliday, esq. tabor, james, esq., sutton rochford. tait, james, esq., m.a., manchester. tangye, sir richard, newquay, cornwall. taylor, e. r., esq., san francisco. taylor, r. c., esq., edgbaston. terry, f. c. birkbeck, esq., m.a., diss. thacker, w., & co., booksellers, london, e.c. (_five copies_). thin, james, bookseller, edinburgh. thomas, arthur, bookseller, leicester. thompson, w., esq., london, e.c. thomson, r. t., esq., glasgow. tolley, r. mentz, esq., darlaston. tomkinson, m., esq., kidderminster. toronto public library. tout, prof., m.a., manchester. trinity college library, cambridge. trinity college library, oxford. truslove & hanson, booksellers, london, w. turnbull, alexander h., esq., wellington, new zealand. turner, frederic, esq., egham. twietmeyer, a., bookseller, leipzig (_two copies_). twisden, rev. john f., bradbourne, east malling. tyas, j. w., esq., tunbridge wells. union club, manchester. united university club, london, s.w. university college library, bangor. university college library, dundee. university college library, oxford. university college of south wales and monmouth, cardiff. university library, aberdeen. university library, christiania. university library, edinburgh. university library, glasgow. university library, sydney. university library, tübingen. university library, utrecht. university of colorado, boulder, u.s.a. university of michigan, ann arbor, u.s.a. university of minnesota, u.s.a. university of mount allison college library, sackville, new brunswick. university of st. andrews. university of toronto. usherwood, rev. t. e. (late archdeacon of maritzburg), parkstone, dorset. van der kemp, dr., neuilly, france. vassar college library, poughkeepsie, n.y., u.s.a. vaughan, prof. c. e., cardiff. vernon, w. h., esq., kenley, surrey. verulam, right hon. the earl of. vezey, j. j., esq., london, s.e. vickers, william, esq., manchester. wadham college library, oxford. waldron, lawrence, esq., dublin. walker, rev. h. a., ipswich. walker, j. r., esq., sheffield. walker, prof. t., m.a., ll.d., victoria college, stellenbosch, cape colony. wall, g. p., esq., sheffield. walmisley, rev. h., blackburn. warburton, samuel, esq., cheetham hill, manchester. warmington, c. m., esq., q.c., london, w.c. warwick, william deeping, esq., newark. waters, a. c., esq., bromley, kent. watson, g. s., esq., sheffield. watt, a. p., esq., london, w.c. weir, r. s., esq., north shields. wellesley college, wellesley, mass., u.s.a. wells, p. & g., booksellers, winchester (_two copies_). welter, h., bookseller, paris (_two copies_). wenley, dr. r. m., michigan university, u.s.a. whitehall, w. j., esq., oxford. widdison, thomas, bookseller, sheffield. wilcocks, h. s., esq., m.a., plymouth. wilkinson, miss i., cambridge. williams, miss j. h., bookseller, bideford. williams, s. d., esq., sutton coldfield. williams, t. w., esq., flax bourton, somerset. williams & norgate, booksellers, london, w.c. willis, william, esq., q.c., temple, london, e.c. willmott, s. ackroyd, esq., london, w.c. wilmer, c. p., esq., london, w.c. wilson, a. j., esq., london, e.c. wilson, b., esq., sedbergh. wilson, h., esq., geraldton, west australia. wilson, r. d., esq., london, w. winchester, c. b., esq., i.c.s. wohlleben, t., bookseller, london, w.c. (_three copies_). wood, alexander, esq., saltcoats. wood, james, esq., m.a., glasgow. wood, t. b., esq., middleton, near manchester. woodcock, f. a., esq., manchester. woodhouse, h., esq., sheffield. worcester college library, oxford. worcester free public library, mass., u.s.a. wordie, john, esq., glasgow. wright, james, esq., belfast. wright, prof. joseph, oxford. wright, dr. w. aldis, trinity college, cambridge. wyndham, g., esq., m.p., london, w. yale university library, new haven, conn., u.s.a. yerburgh, r. a., esq., m.p., london, w. yorkshire college library, leeds. young, harold edgar, esq., liverpool. young, h. & sons, booksellers, liverpool. yule, miss a. f., muir-of-ord, ross-shire, n.b. * * * * * footnotes. [ ] in this connection, we must not forget the curious story told in francis thynne's _animadversions_ on speght's edition of , to the effect that his father (william thynne) had some thoughts of inserting in the volume a piece called _the pilgrim's tale_, but was advised by the king to let it alone; and this, _not_ on the ground that the tale was written after , and contained an allusion to _perkin warbeck_, but solely in deference to the king's remark--'william thynne, i doubt this will not be allowed, for i suspect the bishops will call thee in question for it.' see f. thynne, _animadversions_, &c., ed. furnivall (ch. soc.), pp. , . [ ] these names are given, in the margin, in ms. addit. only. [ ] morris printed _sleepe_, giving no sense; ms. has _slepye_. [ ] the way in which the spelling was gradually altered can be seen even from the following example, in which the eighth line of the plowman's tale is represented:-- ed. . and honge his harneys on a pynne; fol. cxix. ed. . and honged his harnys on a pynne; fol. xc. ed. . and honged his harnis on a pinne; fol. xciii. [ ] so in thynne. but 'tyme' really concludes a sentence; and 'there' should have a capital letter. [ ] he had been imprisoned in (p. , l. ); but at p. , l. , he is leisurely planning a _future_ treatise! at p. , l. , he is in prison _again_. [ ] see p. , l. . he did not care to be 'a stinking martyr'; p. , l. . [ ] perhaps this is why langland refers to 'the castel of corf'; p. plowman, c. iv. . [ ] rolls of parliament, iii. a. [ ] professor morley says:--'as boethius ... wrote three books of the consolation of philosophy," &c. but boethius wrote _five_ books. [ ] one line is enough to shew the order of the texts; see p. xv, footnote. [ ] but this proves nothing, as urry departs from all sound texts in an erratic manner all his own. [ ] the expression 'the quenes heed,' at l. , hardly implies that there was then a queen of england. if it does, it makes the poem later than october, . [ ] the line, as it stands, is ambiguous; what spenser meant to say was--'the ploughman that the pilgrim playde awhyle'; which expresses the fact. the subject is 'the ploughman'; and 'that' means 'whom.' [ ] mr. wright says , and refers to capgrave's chronicle. but this is surely an error; see j. h. wylie's hist. of henry iv, i. - ; with a reference to the close rolls, hen. iv, . . [ ] fairfax deduced the date from the poem here printed, l. . [ ] shirley also refers to lydgate's temple of glas; see schick's edition of that poem; p. lxxxii. [ ] which is not the case; the text in the trinity ms. is in the correct order. [ ] richard ros, born march , - ; nichols, hist. of leicestershire, vol. ii. p. . [ ] there is _no_ copy in ms. harl. , as said by error in vol. i. p. . [ ] there is no authority, except thynne, for the title the cuckoo and the nightingale. it has been repeated in all the printed editions, but does not appear in any ms. [ ] 'in hereford and the far west, not oldcastle alone, but the actons, cheynes, clanvowes, greindors, and many great gentlemen of birth, had begun to mell of lollardy and drink the gall of heresy.'--wylie, hist. of henry iv, vol. iii. p. . sir t. clanvowe was alive in (test. vetusta). [ ] the mss. have _ran_ in c. t., b . _man_ rimes with _can_ in parl. foules, , and with _began_ in the same, . [ ] perhaps, more strictly, a dedication, the true envoy consisting of the last six lines only. but it is no great matter. [ ] hence f. , 'as gret-e perl-es, round and orient,' reappears in a. without the final _-e_, in the form: 'with gret' perlés, _ful_ fyne and orient.' [ ] the examples of _trewly_ in book duch. , , are doubtful. it is a slippery poem to scan. elsewhere, we find _trew-e-ly_. [ ] f. and l. - . [ ] f. and l. - , . [ ] f. and l. , . [ ] f. and l. , . [ ] cf. f. and l. - . [ ] see the english translation in bohn's library, i. . [ ] a piece entitled 'de duodecim abusivis' is one of three pieces appended to Ælfric's lives of the saints in ms. julius e. . [ ] no. is the storie of thebes, which he of course knew to be lydgate's; he adds it _after_ the note--'thus endeth the workes of geffray chaucer.' [ ] at the same time he struck out no. (p. ), as being by lydgate. [ ] in moxon's chaucer, which professed to accept tyrwhitt's canon, this piece was omitted; but it was revived once more by bell. [ ] see the athenæum, nov. , ; the academy, june , ; aug. , . [ ] my remark upon the trinity ms. in vol. i. p. , that 'most of the pieces are in a handwriting of a later date [than ], not far from ,' does not apply to the court of love. this poem, together with two poems by lydgate, fills part of a quire of twenty-four leaves _near the end_ of the ms., of which the seventeenth has been cut out and the last three are blank; and this quire is quite distinct from the rest as regards the date of the writing, which is considerably later than , and exhibits a marked change. there are two _lacunæ_ in the poem, one after l. , and another after l. ; probably six stanzas are lost in each case, owing to the loss of the two corresponding leaves in the original from which the existing copy was made. [ ] i doubt if speculation as to the possible meaning of these names will really help us. [ ] which looks as if the author had written _grewen_ for _greven_, like a scotchman. [ ] a very bad mistake occurs in l. , viz. _thou wot_ instead of _thou wost_, as if one should say in latin _tu scio_. it rimes with _dote_, which, in chaucer, is dissyllabic. [ ] there are many more; _fon-ne_ becomes _fon_, to rime with _on_, ; _tell-e_ is cut down to _tell_, ; _behold-e_, to _behold_, ; _accord-e_, to _accord_, ; &c. the reader can find out more for himself; see ll. , , , , , , , &c. in ll. - , we have _opinion_ riming with _begon_, the chaucerian forms being _opinioun_ and _bigonne_ or _bigunne_! [ ] see vol. vi. p. xlv. [ ] the ms. has:--'than is is lande'--by mistake. [ ] it is clear that the plowmans tale and jack upland were inserted by thynne and speght respectively on religious grounds. [ ] we may safely assign to lydgate the pieces numbered xxii and xxiii, as well as those numbered viii to xv. * * * * * corrections made to the printed original. p. lx. "of sek-e folk ful hol-e" corrected from "seke-e". p. . line . "come; read com" corrected from "com; read come". p. . line b . "i supply eek" corrected from "suppy". p. . "th. thynne, ed. " corrected from "thyme". p. . line "th. chyde; t. chide" - "t." corrected from "th.". p. . line "her father calchas" corrected from "chalcas". p. . line . "meaning not only chalcedony" corrected from "chaledony". p. . s.v. alegge. "xix. ." corrected from "xviii. ." from: english men of letters chaucer by adolphus william ward note. the peculiar conditions of this essay must be left to explain themselves. it could not have been written at all without the aid of the publications of the chaucer society, and more especially of the labours of the society's director, mr. furnivall. to other recent writers on chaucer--including mr fleay, from whom i never differ but with hesitation--i have referred, in so far as it was in my power to do so. perhaps i may take this opportunity of expressing a wish that pauli's "history of england," a work beyond the compliment of an acknowledgement, were accessible to every english reader. a.w.w. contents. chapter . chaucer's times. chapter . chaucer's life and works. chapter . characteristics of chaucer and of his poetry. chapter . epilogue. glossary. index. chaucer. chapter . chaucer's times. the biography of geoffrey chaucer is no longer a mixture of unsifted facts, and of more or less hazardous conjectures. many and wide as are the gaps in our knowledge concerning the course of his outer life, and doubtful as many important passages of it remain--in vexatious contrast with the certainty of other relatively insignificant data--we have at least become aware of the foundations on which alone a trustworthy account of it can be built. these foundations consist partly of a meagre though gradually increasing array of external evidence, chiefly to be found in public documents,--in the royal wardrobe book, the issue rolls of the exchequer, the customs rolls, and suchlike records--partly of the conclusions which may be drawn with confidence from the internal evidence of the poet's own indisputably genuine works, together with a few references to him in the writings of his contemporaries or immediate successors. which of his works are to be accepted as genuine, necessarily forms the subject of an antecedent enquiry, such as cannot with any degree of safety be conducted except on principles far from infallible with regard to all the instances to which they have been applied, but now accepted by the large majority of competent scholars. thus, by a process which is in truth dulness and dryness itself except to patient endeavour stimulated by the enthusiasm of special literary research, a limited number of results has been safely established, and others have at all events been placed beyond reasonable doubt. around a third series of conclusions or conjectures the tempest of controversy still rages; and even now it needs a wary step to pass without fruitless deviations through a maze of assumptions consecrated by their longevity, or commended to sympathy by the fervour of personal conviction. a single instance must suffice to indicate both the difficulty and the significance of many of those questions of chaucerian biography which, whether interesting or not in themselves, have to be determined before chaucer's life can be written. they are not "all and some" mere antiquarians' puzzles, of interest only to those who have leisure and inclination for microscopic enquiries. so with the point immediately in view. it has been said with much force that tyrwhitt, whose services to the study of chaucer remain uneclipsed by those of any other scholar, would have composed a quite different biography of the poet, had he not been confounded by the formerly (and here and there still) accepted date of chaucer's birth, the year . for the correctness of this date tyrwhitt "supposed" the poet's tombstone in westminster abbey to be the voucher; but the slab placed on a pillar near his grave (it is said at the desire of caxton), appears to have merely borne a latin inscription without any dates; and the marble monument erected in its stead "in the name of the muses" by nicolas brigham in , while giving october th, , as the day of chaucer's death, makes no mention either of the date of his birth or of the number of years to which he attained, and, indeed, promises no more information than it gives. that chaucer's contemporary, the poet gower, should have referred to him in the year as "now in his days old," is at best a very vague sort of testimony, more especially as it is by mere conjecture that the year of gower's own birth is placed as far back as . still less weight can be attached to the circumstance that another poet, occleve, who clearly regarded himself as the disciple of one by many years his senior, in accordance with the common phraseology of his (and, indeed, of other) times, spoke of the older writer as his "father" and "father reverent." in a coloured portrait carefully painted from memory by occleve on the margin of a manuscript, chaucer is represented with grey hair and beard; but this could not of itself be taken to contradict the supposition that he died about the age of sixty. and leland's assertion that chaucer attained to old age self-evidently rests on tradition only; for leland was born more than a century after chaucer died. nothing occurring in any of chaucer's own works of undisputed genuineness throws any real light on the subject. his poem, the "house of fame," has been variously dated; but at any period of his manhood he might have said, as he says there, that he was "too old" to learn astronomy, and preferred to take his science on faith. in the curious lines called "l'envoy de chaucer a scogan," the poet, while blaming his friend for his want of perseverance in a love-suit, classes himself among "them that be hoar and round of shape," and speaks of himself and his muse as out of date and rusty. but there seems no sufficient reason for removing the date of the composition of these lines to an earlier year than ; and poets as well as other men since chaucer have spoken of themselves as old and obsolete at fifty. a similar remark might be made concerning the reference to the poet's old age "which dulleth him in his spirit," in the "complaint of venus," generally ascribed to the last decennium of chaucer's life. if we reject the evidence of a further passage, in the "cuckoo and the nightingale," a poem of disputed genuineness, we accordingly arrive at the conclusion that there is no reason for demurring to the only direct external evidence in existence as to the date of chaucer's birth. at a famous trial of a cause of chivalry held at westminster in , chaucer, who had gone through part of a campaign with one of the litigants, appeared as a witness; and on this occasion his age was, doubtless on his own deposition, recorded as that of a man "of forty years and upwards," who had borne arms for twenty-seven years. a careful enquiry into the accuracy of the record as to the ages of the numerous other witnesses at the same trial has established it in an overwhelming majority of instances; and it is absurd gratuitously to charge chaucer with having understated his age from motives of vanity. the conclusion, therefore, seems to remain unshaken, that he was born about the year , or some time between that year and . now, we possess a charming poem by chaucer called the "assembly of fowls," elaborately courtly in its conception, and in its execution giving proofs of italian reading on the part of its author, as well as of a ripe humour such as is rarely an accompaniment of extreme youth. this poem has been thought by earlier commentators to allegorise an event known to have happened in , by later critics another which occurred in . clearly, the assumption that the period from to includes the date of chaucer's birth, suffices of itself to stamp the one of these conjectures as untenable, and the other as improbable, and (when the style of the poem and treatment of its subject are taken into account) adds weight to the other reasons in favour of the date for the poem in question. thus, backwards and forwards, the disputed points in chaucer's biography and the question of his works are affected by one another. * * * * * chaucer's life, then, spans rather more than the latter half of the fourteenth century, the last year of which was indisputably the year of his death. in other words, it covers rather more than the interval between the most glorious epoch of edward iii's reign--for crecy was fought in --and the downfall, in , of his unfortunate successor richard ii. the england of this period was but a little land, if numbers be the test of greatness--but in edward iii's time as in that of henry v, who inherited so much of edward's policy and revived so much of his glory, there stirred in this little body a mighty heart. it is only of a small population that the author of the "vision concerning piers plowman" could have gathered the representatives into a single field, or that chaucer himself could have composed a family picture fairly comprehending, though not altogether exhausting, the chief national character-types. in the year of king richard ii's accession ( ), according to a trustworthy calculation based upon the result of that year's poll-tax, the total number of the inhabitants of england seems to have been two millions and a half. a quarter of a century earlier--in the days of chaucer's boyhood--their numbers had been perhaps twice as large. for not less than four great pestilences (in - , - , , and - ) had swept over the land, and at least one-half of its population, including two-thirds of the inhabitants of the capital, had been carried off by the ravages of the obstinate epidemic--"the foul death of england," as it was called in a formula of execration in use among the people. in this year , london, where chaucer was doubtless born as well as bred, where the greater part of his life was spent, and where the memory of his name is one of those associations which seem familiarly to haunt the banks of the historic river from thames street to westminster, apparently numbered not more than , souls. but if, from the nature of the case, no place was more exposed than london to the inroads of the black death, neither was any other so likely elastically to recover from them. for the reign of edward iii had witnessed a momentous advance in the prosperity of the capital,--an advance reflecting itself in the outward changes introduced during the same period into the architecture of the city. its wealth had grown larger as its houses had grown higher; and mediaeval london, such as we are apt to picture it to ourselves, seems to have derived those leading features which it so long retained, from the days when chaucer, with downcast but very observant eyes, passed along its streets between billingsgate and aldgate. still, here as elsewhere in england the remembrance of the most awful physical visitations which have ever befallen the country must have long lingered; and, after all has been said, it is wonderful that the traces of them should be so exceedingly scanty in chaucer's pages. twice only in his poems does he refer to the plague:--once in an allegorical fiction which is of italian if not of french origin, and where, therefore, no special reference to the ravages of the disease in england may be intended when death is said to have "a thousand slain this pestilence,"-- he hath slain this year hence over a mile, within a great village both men and women, child and hind and page. the other allusion is a more than half humorous one. it occurs in the description of the "doctor of physic," the grave graduate in purple surcoat and blue white-furred hood; nor, by the way, may this portrait itself be altogether without its use as throwing some light on the helplessness of fourteenth-century medical science. for though in all the world there was none like this doctor to speak of physic and of surgery;--though he was a very perfect practitioner, and never at a loss for telling the cause of any malady and for supplying the patient with the appropriate drug, sent in by the doctor's old and faithful friends the apothecaries;--though he was well versed in all the authorities from aesculapius to the writer of the "rosa anglica" (who cures inflammation homeopathically by the use of red draperies);--though like a truly wise physician he began at home by caring anxiously for his own digestion and for his peace of mind ("his study was but little in the bible"):--yet the basis of his scientific knowledge was "astronomy," i.e. astrology, "the better part of medicine," as roger bacon calls it; together with that "natural magic" by which, as chaucer elsewhere tells us, the famous among the learned have known how to make men whole or sick. and there was one specific which, from a double point of view, chaucer's doctor of physic esteemed very highly, and was loth to part with on frivolous pretexts. he was but easy (i.e. slack) of "dispence":-- he kepte that he won in pestilence. for gold in physic is a cordial; therefore he loved gold in special. meanwhile the ruling classes seem to have been left untouched in heart by these successive ill-met and ill-guarded trials, which had first smitten the lower orders chiefly, then the higher with the lower (if the plague of had swept off an archbishop, that of struck down among others henry duke of lancaster, the father of chaucer's duchess blanche). calamities such as these would assuredly have been treated as warnings sent from on high, both in earlier times, when a church better braced for the due performance of its never-ending task, eagerly interpreted to awful ears the signs of the wrath of god, and by a later generation, leavened in spirit by the self-searching morality of puritanism. but from the sorely-tried third quarter of the fourteenth century the solitary voice of langland cries, as the voice of conscience preaching with her cross, that "these pestilences" are the penalty of sin and of naught else. it is assuredly presumptuous for one generation, without the fullest proof, to accuse another of thoughtlessness or heartlessness; and though the classes for which chaucer mainly wrote and with which he mainly felt, were in all probability as little inclined to improve the occasions of the black death as the middle classes of the present day would be to fall on their knees after a season of commercial ruin, yet signs are not wanting that in the later years of the fourteenth century words of admonition came to be not unfrequently spoken. the portents of the eventful year called forth moralisings in english verse, and the pestilence of a rhymed lamentation in latin; and at different dates in king richard's reign the poet gower, chaucer's contemporary and friend, inveighed both in latin and in english, from his conservative point of view, against the corruption and sinfulness of society at large. but by this time the great peasant insurrection had added its warning, to which it was impossible to remain deaf. a self-confident nation, however, is slow to betake itself to sackcloth and ashes. on the whole it is clear, that though the last years of edward iii were a season of failure and disappointment,--though from the period of the first pestilence onwards the signs increase of the king's unpopularity and of the people's discontent,--yet the overburdened and enfeebled nation was brought almost as slowly as the king himself to renounce the proud position of a conquering power. in he had celebrated the completion of his fiftieth year; and three suppliant kings had at that time been gathered as satellites round the sun of his success. by he had lost all his allies, and nearly all the conquests gained by himself and the valiant prince of wales; and during the years remaining to him his subjects hated his rule and angrily assailed his favourites. from being a conquering power the english monarchy was fast sinking into an island which found it difficult to defend its own shores. there were times towards the close of edward's and early in his successor's reign when matters would have gone hard with english traders, naturally desirous of having their money's worth for their subsidy of tonnage and poundage, and anxious, like their type the "merchant" in chaucer, that "the sea were kept for anything" between middelburgh and harwich, had not some of them, such as the londoner john philpot, occasionally armed and manned a squadron of ships on their own account, in defiance of red tape and its censures. but in the days when chaucer and the generation with which he grew up were young, the ardour of foreign conquest had not yet died out in the land, and clergy and laity cheerfully co-operated in bearing the burdens which military glory has at all times brought with it for a civilised people. the high spirit of the english nation, at a time when the decline in its fortunes was already near at hand ( ), is evident from the answer given to the application from rome for the arrears of thirty-three years of the tribute promised by king john, or rather from what must unmistakeably have been the drift of that answer. its terms are unknown, but the demand was never afterwards repeated. the power of england in the period of an ascendancy to which she so tenaciously sought to cling, had not been based only upon the valour of her arms. our country was already a rich one in comparison with most others in europe. other purposes besides that of providing good cheer for a robust generation were served by the wealth of her great landed proprietors, and of the "worthy vavasours" (smaller landowners) who, like chaucer's "franklin"--a very saint julian or pattern of hospitality--knew not what it was to be "without baked meat in the house," where their tables dormant in the hall alway stood ready covered all the longe day. from this source, and from the well-filled coffers of the traders came the laity's share of the expenses of those foreign wars which did so much to consolidate national feeling in england. the foreign companies of merchants long contrived to retain the chief share of the banking business and export trade assigned to them by the short-sighted commercial policy of edward iii, and the weaving and fishing industries of hanseatic and flemish immigrants had established an almost unbearable competition in our own ports and towns. but the active import trade, which already connected england with both nearer and remoter parts of christendom, must have been largely in native hands; and english chivalry, diplomacy, and literature followed in the lines of the trade-routes to the baltic and the mediterranean. our mariners, like their type the "shipman" in chaucer (an anticipation of the "venturer" of later days, with the pirate as yet, perhaps, more strongly marked in him than the patriot),-- knew well all the havens, as they were from gothland, to the cape of finisterre, and every creek in brittany and spain. doubtless, as may be noticed in passing, much of the tendency on the part of our shipmen in this period to self-help in offence as well as in defence, was due to the fact that the mercantile navy was frequently employed in expeditions of war, vessels and men being at times seized or impressed for the purpose by order of the crown. on one of these occasions the port of dartmouth, whence chaucer at a venture ("for aught i wot") makes his "shipman" hail, is found contributing a larger total of ships and men than any other port in england. for the rest, flanders was certainly still far ahead of her future rival in wealth, and in mercantile and industrial activity; as a manufacturing country she had no equal, and in trade the rival she chiefly feared was still the german hansa. chaucer's "merchant" characteristically wears a "flandrish beaver hat;" and it is no accident that the scene of the "pardoner's tale," which begins with a description of "superfluity abominable," is laid in flanders. in england, indeed the towns never came to domineer as they did in the netherlands. yet, since no trading country will long submit to be ruled by the landed interest only, so in proportion as the english towns, and london especially, grew richer, their voices were listened to in the settlement of the affairs of the nation. it might be very well for chaucer to close the description of his "merchant" with what looks very much like a fashionable writer's half sneer:-- forsooth, he was a worthy man withal; but, truly, i wot not how men him call. yet not only was high political and social rank reached by individual "merchant princes," such as the wealthy william de la pole, a descendant of whom is said (though on unsatisfactory evidence) to have been chaucer's grand-daughter, but the government of the country came to be very perceptibly influenced by the class from which they sprang. on the accession of richard ii, two london citizens were appointed controllers of the war-subsidies granted to the crown; and in the parliament of a committee of fourteen merchants refused to entertain the question of a merchants' loan to the king. the importance and self-consciousness of the smaller tradesmen and handicraftsmen increased with that of the great merchants. when in king richard ii marked the termination of his quarrel with the city of london by a stately procession through "new troy," he was welcomed, according to the friar who has commemorated the event in latin verse, by the trades in an array resembling an angelic host; and among the crafts enumerated we recognise several of those represented in chaucer's company of pilgrims--by the "carpenter," the "webbe" (weaver), and the "dyer," all clothed in one livery of a solemn and great fraternity. the middle class, in short, was learning to hold up its head, collectively and individually. the historical original of chaucer's "host"--the actual master harry bailly, vintner and landlord of the tabard inn in southwark, was likewise a member of parliament, and very probably felt as sure of himself in real life as the mimic personage bearing his name does in its fictitious reproduction. and he and his fellows, the "poor and simple commons"--for so humble was the style they were wont to assume in their addresses to the sovereign,--began to look upon themselves, and to be looked upon, as a power in the state. the london traders and handicraftsmen knew what it was to be well-to-do citizens, and if they had failed to understand it, home monition would have helped to make it clear to them:-- well seemed each of them a fair burgess, for sitting in a guildhall on a dais. and each one for the wisdom that he can was shapely for to be an alderman. they had enough of chattels and of rent, and very gladly would their wives assent; and, truly, else they had been much to blame. it is full fair to be yclept madame, and fair to go to vigils all before, and have a mantle royally y-bore. the english state had ceased to be the feudal monarchy--the ramification of contributory courts and camps--of the crude days of william the conqueror and his successors. the norman lords and their english dependants no longer formed two separate elements in the body politic. in the great french wars of edward iii, the english armies had no longer mainly consisted of the baronial levies. the nobles had indeed, as of old, ridden into battle at the head of their vassals and retainers; but the body of the force had been made up of englishmen serving for pay, and armed with their national implement, the bow--such as chaucer's "yeoman" carried with him on the ride to canterbury:-- a sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen under his belt he bare full thriftily. well could he dress his tackle yeomanly: his arrows drooped not with feathers low, and in his hand he bare a mighty bow. the use of the bow was specially favoured by both edward iii and his successor; and when early in the next century the chivalrous scottish king, james i (of whom mention will be made among chaucer's poetic disciples) returned from his long english captivity to his native land, he had no more eager care than that his subjects should learn to emulate the english in the handling of their favourite weapon. chaucer seems to be unable to picture an army without it, and we find him relating how, from ancient troy,-- hector and many a worthy wight out went with spear in hand, and with their big bows bent. no wonder that when the battles were fought by the people itself, and when the cost of the wars was to so large an extent defrayed by its self-imposed contributions, the scottish and french campaigns should have called forth that national enthusiasm which found an echo in the songs of lawrence minot, as hearty war-poetry as has been composed in any age of our literature. they were put forth in , and considering the unusual popularity they are said to have enjoyed, it is not impossible that they may have reached chaucer's ears in his boyhood. before the final collapse of the great king's fortunes, and his death in a dishonoured old age, the ambition of his heir, the proudest hope of both dynasty and nation, had overleapt itself, and the black prince had preceded his father to the tomb. the good ship england (so sang a contemporary poet) was left without rudder or helm; and in a kingdom full of faction and discontent the future of the plantagenet throne depended on a child. while the young king's ambitious uncle, john of gaunt, duke of lancaster (chaucer's patron), was in nominal retirement, and his academical ally, wyclif, was gaining popularity as the mouthpiece of the resistance to the papal demands, there were fermenting beneath the surface elements of popular agitation, which had been but little taken into account by the political factions of edward the third's reign, and by that part of its society with which chaucer was more especially connected. but the multitude, whose turn in truth comes but rarely in the history of a nation, must every now and then make itself heard, although poets may seem all but blind and deaf to the tempest as it rises, and bursts, and passes away. many causes had concurred to excite the insurrection which temporarily destroyed the influence of john of gaunt, and which for long cast a deep shade upon the effects of the teaching of wyclif. the acquisition of a measure of rights and power by the middle classes had caused a general swaying upwards; and throughout the peoples of europe floated those dreams and speculations concerning the equality and fraternity of all men, which needed but a stimulus and an opportunity to assume the practical shape of a revolution. the melancholy thought which pervades langland's "vision" is still that of the helplessness of the poor; and the remedy to which he looks against the corruption of the governing classes is the advent of a superhuman king, whom he identifies with the ploughman himself, the representative of suffering humility. but about the same time as that of the composition of this poem--or not long afterwards--wyclif had sent forth among the people his "simple priests," who illustrated by contrast the conflict which his teaching exposed between the existing practice of the church and the original documents of her faith. the connexion between wyclif's teaching and the peasants' insurrection under richard ii is as undeniable as that between luther's doctrines and the great social uprising in germany a century and a half afterwards. when, upon the declaration of the papal schism, wyclif abandoned all hope of a reform of the church from within, and, defying the injunctions of foe and friend alike, entered upon a course of theological opposition, the popular influence of his followers must have tended to spread a theory admitting of very easy application ad hominem--the theory, namely, that the tenure of all offices, whether spiritual or temporal, is justified only by the personal fitness of their occupants. with such levelling doctrine, the socialism of popular preachers like john balle might seem to coincide with sufficient closeness; and since worthiness was not to be found in the holders of either spiritual or temporal authority, of either ecclesiastical or lay wealth, the time had palpably come for the poor man to enjoy his own again. then, the advent of a weak government, over which a powerful kinsman of the king and unconcealed adversary of the church was really seeking to recover the control, and the imposition of a tax coming home to all men except actual beggars, and filling serfdom's cup of bitterness to overflowing, supplied the opportunity, and the insurrection broke out. its violence fell short of that of the french jacquerie a quarter of a century earlier; but no doubt could exist as to its critical importance. as it happened, the revolt turned with special fury against the possessions of the duke of lancaster, whose sympathies with the cause of ecclesiastical reform it definitively extinguished. after the suppression of this appalling movement by a party of order comprehending in it all who had anything to lose, a period of reaction ensued. in the reign of richard ii, whichever faction might be in the ascendant, and whatever direction the king's own sympathies may have originally taken, the last state of the peasantry was without doubt worse than the first. wycliffism as an influence rapidly declined with the death of wyclif himself, as it hardly could but decline, considering the absence from his teaching of any tangible system of church government; and lollardry came to be the popular name, or nickname, for any and every form of dissent from the existing system. finally, henry of lancaster, john of gaunt's son, mounted the throne as a sort of saviour of society,--a favourite character for usurpers to pose in before the applauding assemblage of those who claim "a stake in the country." chaucer's contemporary, gower, whose wisdom was of the kind which goes with the times, who was in turn a flatterer of richard and (by the simple expedient of a revised second edition of his magnum opus) a flatterer of henry, offers better testimony than chaucer to the conservatism of the upper classes of his age, and to the single-minded anxiety for the good times when justice of law is held; the privilege of royalty is safe, and all the barony worshipped is in its estate. the people stands in obeisance under the rule of governance. chaucer is less explicit, and may have been too little of a politician by nature to care for preserving an outward consistency in his incidental remarks concerning the lower classes. in his "clerk's tale" he finds room for a very dubious commonplace about the "stormy people," its levity, untruthfulness, indiscretion, fickleness, and garrulity, and the folly of putting any trust in it. in his "nun's priest's tale" he further enlivens one of the liveliest descriptions of a hue-and-cry ever put upon paper by a direct reference to the peasants' rebellion:-- so hideous was the noise, ah bencite! that of a truth jack straw, and his meinie not made never shoutes half so shrill, when that they any fleming meant to kill. assuredly, again, there is an unmistakably conservative tone in the "ballad" purporting to have been sent by him "to king richard," with its refrain as to all being "lost for want of steadfastness," and its admonition to its sovereign to ...shew forth the sword of castigation. on the other hand, it would be unjust to leave unnoticed the passage, at once powerful and touching, in the so-called "parson's tale" (the sermon which closes the "canterbury tales" as chaucer left them), in which certain lords are reproached for taking of their bondmen amercements, "which might more reasonably be called extortions than amercements," while lords in general are commanded to be good to their thralls (serfs), because "those that they clept thralls, be god's people; for humble folks be christ's friends; they be contubernially with the lord." the solitary type, however, of the labouring man proper which chaucer, in manifest remembrance of langland's allegory, produces, is one which, beautiful and affecting as it is, has in it a flavour of the comfortable sentiment, that things are as they should be. this is--not of course the "parson" himself, of which most significant character hereafter, but--the "parson's" brother, the "ploughman". he is a true labourer and a good, religious and charitable in his life,--and always ready to pay his tithes. in short, he is a true christian, but at the same time the ideal rather than the prototype, if one may so say, of the conservative working man. such were some, though of course some only, of the general currents of english public life in the latter half--chaucer's half--of the fourteenth century. its social features were naturally in accordance with the course of the national history. in the first place, the slow and painful process of amalgamation between the normans and the english was still unfinished, though the reign of edward iii went far towards completing what had rapidly advanced since the reigns of john and henry iii. by the middle of the fourteenth century english had become, or was just becoming, the common tongue of the whole nation. among the political poems and songs preserved from the days of edward iii and richard ii, not a single one composed on english soil is written in french. parliament was opened by an english speech in the year , and in the previous year the proceedings in the law courts were ordered to be conducted in the native tongue. yet when chaucer wrote his "canterbury tales," it seems still to have continued the pedantic affectation of a profession for its members, like chaucer's "man of law," to introduce french law-terms into common conversation; so that it is natural enough to find the "summoner" following suit, and interlarding his "tale" with the latin scraps picked up by him from the decrees and pleadings of the ecclesiastical courts. meanwhile, manifold difficulties had delayed or interfered with the fusion between the two races, before the victory of the english language showed this fusion to have been in substance accomplished. one of these difficulties, which has been sometimes regarded as fundamental, has doubtless been exaggerated by national feeling on either side; but that it existed is not to be denied. already in those ages the national character and temperament of french and english differed largely from one another; though the reasons why they so differed, remain a matter of argument. in a dialogue, dated from the middle of the fourteenth century, the french interlocutor attributes this difference to the respective national beverages: "we are nourished with the pure juice of the grape, while naught but the dregs is sold to the english, who will take anything for liquor that is liquid." the case is put with scarcely greater politeness by a living french critic of high repute, according to whom the english, still weighted down by teutonic phlegm, were drunken gluttons, agitated at intervals by poetic enthusiasm, while the normans, on the other hand, lightened by their transplantation, and by the admixture of a variety of elements, already found the claims of esprit developing themselves within them. this is an explanation which explains nothing--least of all, the problem: why the lively strangers should have required the contact with insular phlegm in order to receive the creative impulse--why, in other words, norman-french literature should have derived so enormous an advantage from the transplantation of normans to english ground. but the evil days when the literary labours of englishmen had been little better than bond-service to the tastes of their foreign masters had passed away, since the norman barons had, from whatever motive, invited the commons of england to take a share with them in the national councils. after this, the question of the relations between the two languages, and the wider one of the relations between the two nationalities, could only be decided by the peaceable adjustment of the influences exercised by the one side upon the other. the norman noble, his ideas, and the expression they found in forms of life and literature, had henceforth, so to speak, to stand on their merits; the days of their dominion as a matter of course had passed away. together with not a little of their political power, the norman nobles of chaucer's time had lost something of the traditions of their order. chivalry had not quite come to an end with the crusades; but it was a difficult task to maintain all its laws, written and unwritten, in these degenerate days. no laurels were any longer to be gained in the holy land; and though the campaigns of the great german order against the pagans of prussia and lithuania attracted the service of many an english knight--in the middle of the century, henry, duke of lancaster, fought there, as his grandson, afterwards king henry iv, did forty years later--yet the substitute was hardly adequate in kind. of the great mediaeval companies of knights, the most famous had, early in the century, perished under charges which were undoubtedly in the main foul fictions, but at the same time were only too much in accord with facts betokening an unmistakable decay of the true spirit of chivalry; before the century closed, lawyers were rolling parchments in the halls of the templars by the thames. thus, though the age of chivalry had not yet ended, its supremacy was already on the wane, and its ideal was growing dim. in the history of english chivalry the reign of edward iii is memorable, not only for the foundation of our most illustrious order of knighthood, but likewise for many typical acts of knightly valour and courtesy, as well on the part of the king when in his better days, as on that of his heroic son. yet it cannot be by accident that an undefinable air of the old-fashioned clings to that most delightful of all chaucer's character-sketches, the "knight" of the "canterbury tales." his warlike deeds at alexandria, in prussia, and elsewhere, may be illustrated from those of more than one actual knight of the times; and the whole description of him seems founded on one by a french poet of king john of bohemia, who had at least the external features of a knight of the old school. the chivalry, however, which was in fashion as the century advanced, was one outwardly far removed from the sturdy simplicity of chaucer's "knight," and inwardly often rotten in more than one vital part. in show and splendour a higher point was probably reached in edward iii's than in any preceding reign. the extravagance in dress which prevailed in this period is too well known a characteristic of it to need dwelling upon. sumptuary laws in vain sought to restrain this foible; and it rose to such a pitch as even to oblige men, lest they should be precluded from indulging in gorgeous raiment, to abandon hospitality, a far more amiable species of excess. when the kinds of clothing respectively worn by the different classes served as distinctions of rank, the display of splendour in one class could hardly fail to provoke emulation in the others. the long-lived english love for "crying" colours shows itself amusingly enough in the early pictorial representations of several of chaucer's canterbury pilgrims, though in floridity of apparel, as of speech, the youthful "squire" bears away the bell:-- embroidered was he, as it were a mead all full of freshest flowers, white and red. but of the artificiality and extravagance of the costumes of these times we have direct contemporary evidence, and loud contemporary complaints. now, it is the jagged cut of the garments, punched and shredded by the man-milliner; now, the wide and high collars and the long-pointed boots, which attract the indignation of the moralist; at one time he inveighs against the "horrible disordinate scantness" of the clothing worn by gallants, at another against the "outrageous array" in which ladies love to exhibit their charms. the knights' horses are decked out with not less finery than are the knights themselves, with "curious harness, as in saddles and bridles, cruppers, and breast-plates, covered with precious clothing, and with bars and plates of gold and silver." and though it is hazardous to stigmatize the fashions of any one period as specially grotesque, yet it is significant of this age to find the reigning court beauty appearing at a tournament robed as queen of the sun; while even a lady from a manufacturing district, the "wife of bath," makes the most of her opportunities to be seen as well as to see. her "kerchiefs" were "full fine" of texture, and weighed, one might be sworn, ten pound-- that on a sunday were upon her head. her hosen too were of fine scarlet red, full straight y-tied, and shoes full moist and new. ... upon an ambler easily she sat, y-wimpled well, and on her head a hat, as broad as is a buckler or a targe. so, with a foot-mantle round her hips, and a pair of sharp spurs on her feet, she looked as defiant as any self-conscious amazon of any period. it might perhaps be shown how in more important artistic efforts than fashions of dress this age displayed its aversion from simplicity and moderation. at all events, the love of the florid and overloaded declares itself in what we know concerning the social life of the nobility, as, for instance, we find that life reflected in the pages of froissart, whose counts and lords seem neither to clothe themselves nor to feed themselves, nor to talk, pray, or swear like ordinary mortals. the "vows of the heron," a poem of the earlier part of king edward iii's reign, contains a choice collection of strenuous knightly oaths; and in a humbler way the rest of the population very naturally imitated the parlance of their rulers, and in the words of the "parson's tale," "dismembered christ by soul, heart, bones, and body." but there is one very much more important feature to be noticed in the social life of the nobility, for whom chaucer's poetry must have largely replaced the french verse in which they had formerly delighted. the relation between knight and lady plays a great part in the history as well as in the literature of the later plantagenet period; and incontestably its conceptions of this relation still retained much of the pure sentiment belonging to the best and most fervent times of christian chivalry. the highest religious expression which has ever been given to man's sense of woman's mission, as his life's comfort and crown, was still a universally dominant belief. to the blessed virgin, king edward iii dedicated his principal religious foundation; and chaucer, to whatever extent his opinions or sentiments may have been in accordance with ideas of ecclesiastical reform, displays a pious devotion towards the foremost saint of the church. the lyric entitled the "praise of women," in which she is enthusiastically recognized as the representative of the whole of her sex, is generally rejected as not chaucer's; but the elaborate "orison to the holy virgin," beginning mother of god, and virgin undefiled, seems to be correctly described as "oratio gallfridi chaucer"; and in "chaucers a. b. c., called la priere de notre dame," a translation by him from a french original, we have a long address to the blessed virgin in twenty-three stanzas, each of which begins with one of the letters of the alphabet arranged in proper succession. nor, apart from this religious sentiment, had men yet altogether lost sight of the ideal of true knightly love, destined though this ideal was to be obscured in the course of time, until at last the "mort d'arthure" was the favourite literary nourishment of the minions and mistresses of edward iv's degenerate days. in his "book of the duchess" chaucer has left us a picture of true knightly love, together with one of true maiden purity. the lady celebrated in this poem was loth, merely for the sake of coquetting with their exploits, to send her knights upon errands of chivalry-- into walachy, to prussia, and to tartary, to alexandria or turkey. and doubtless there was many a gentle knight or squire to whom might have been applied the description given by the heroine of chaucer's "troilus and cressid" of her lover, and of that which attracted her in him:-- for trust ye well that your estate royal, nor vain delight, nor only worthiness of you in war or tourney martial, nor pomp, array, nobility, riches, of these none made me rue on your distress, but moral virtue, grounded upon truth, that was the cause i first had on you ruth. and gentle heart, and manhood that ye had, and that ye had (as methought) in despite everything that tended unto bad, as rudeness, and as popular appetite, and that your reason bridled your delight, 'twas these did make 'bove every creature, that i was yours, and shall while i may 'dure. and if true affection under the law still secured the sympathy of the better-balanced part of society, so the vice of those who made war upon female virtue, or the insolence of those who falsely boasted of their conquests, still incurred its resentment. among the companies which in the "house of fame" sought the favour of its mistress, chaucer vigorously satirises the would-be-lady-killers, who were content with the reputation of accomplished seducers; and in "troilus and cressid" a shrewd observer exclaims with the utmost vivacity against such sort of folk,--what shall i clepe them? what? that vaunt themselves of women, and by name, that yet to them ne'er promised this or that, nor knew them more, in sooth, than mine old hat. the same easy but sagacious philosopher (pandarus) observes, that the harm which is in this world springs as often from folly as from malice. but a deeper feeling animates the lament of the "good alceste," in the prologue to the "legend of good women," that among men the betrayal of women is now "held a game." so indisputably it was already often esteemed, in too close an accordance with examples set in the highest places in the land. if we are to credit an old tradition, a poem in which chaucer narrates the amours of mars and venus was written by him at the request of john of gaunt, to celebrate the adultery of the duke's sister-in-law with a nobleman, to whom the injured kinsman afterwards married one of his own daughters! but nowhere was the deterioration of sentiment on this head more strongly typified than in edward iii himself. the king, who (if the pleasing tale be true which gave rise to some beautiful scenes in an old english drama) had in his early days royally renounced an unlawful passion for the fair countess of salisbury, came to be accused of at once violating his conjugal duty and neglecting his military glory for the sake of strange women's charms. the founder of the order of the garter--the device of which enjoined purity even of thought as a principle of conduct--died in the hands of a rapacious courtesan. thus, in england, as in france, the ascendancy is gained by ignobler views concerning the relation between the sexes,--a relation to which the whole system of chivalry owed a great part of its vitality, and on the view of which prevailing in the most influential class of any nation, the social health of that nation must inevitably in no small measure depend. meanwhile, the artificialities by means of which in france, up to the beginning of the fifteenth century, it was sought to keep alive an organised system of sentimentality in the social dealings between gentlemen and ladies, likewise found admission in england, but only in a modified degree. here the fashion in question asserted itself only, or chiefly, in our poetic literature, and in the adoption by it of such fancies as the praise and worship of the daisy, with which we meet in the prologue to chaucer's "legend of good women," and in the "flower and the leaf," a most pleasing poem (suggested by a french model), which it is unfortunately no longer possible to number among his genuine works. the poem of the "court of love," which was likewise long erroneously attributed to him, may be the original work of an english author; but in any case its main contents are a mere adaptation of a peculiar outgrowth on a foreign soil of conceptions common to chivalry in general. of another force, which in the middle ages shared with chivalry (though not with it alone) the empire over the minds of men, it would certainly be rash to assert that its day was passing away in the latter half of the fourteenth century. it has indeed been pointed out that the date at which wyclif's career as a reformer may be said to have begun almost coincides with that of the climax and first decline of feudal chivalry in england. but, without seeking to interpret coincidences, we know that, though the influence of the christian church and that of its roman branch in particular, has asserted and reasserted itself in various ways and degrees in various ages, yet in england, as elsewhere, the epoch of its moral omnipotence had come to an end many generations before the disruption of its external framework. in the fourteenth century men had long ceased to look for the mediation of the church between an overbearing crown and a baronage and commonalty eager for the maintenance of their rights or for the assertion of their claims. on the other hand, the conflicts which still recurred between the temporal power and the church had as little reference as ever to spiritual concerns. undoubtedly, the authority of the church over the minds of the people still depended in the main upon the spiritual influence she exercised over them; and the desire for a reformation of the church, which was already making itself felt in a gradually widening sphere, was by the great majority of those who cherished it held perfectly compatible with a recognition of her authority. the world, it has been well said, needed an enquiry extending over three centuries, in order to learn to walk without the aid of the church of rome. wyclif, who sought to emancipate the human conscience from reliance upon any earthly authority intermediate between the soul and its maker, reckoned without his generation; and few, except those with whom audacity took the place of argument, followed him to the extreme results of his speculations. the great schism rather stayed than promoted the growth of an english feeling against rome, since it was now no longer necessary to acknowledge a pope who seemed the henchman of the arch-foe across the narrow seas. but although the progress of english sentiment towards the desire for liberation from rome was to be interrupted by a long and seemingly decisive reaction, yet in the fourteenth as in the sixteenth century the most active cause of the alienation of the people from the church was the conduct of the representatives of the church themselves. the reformation has most appropriately retained in history a name at first unsuspiciously applied to the removal of abuses in the ecclesiastical administration and in the life of the clergy. what aid could be derived by those who really hungered for spiritual food, or what strength could accrue to the thoughtless faith of the light-hearted majority, from many of the most common varieties of the english ecclesiastic of the later middle ages? apart from the italian and other foreign holders of english benefices, who left their flocks to be tended by deputy, and to be shorn by an army of the most offensive kind of tax-gatherers, the native clergy included many species, but among them few which, to the popular eye, seemed to embody a high ideal of religious life. the times had by no means come to an end when many of the higher clergy sought to vie with the lay lords in warlike prowess. perhaps the martial bishop of norwich, who, after persecuting the heretics at home, had commanded in army of crusaders in flanders, levied on behalf of pope urban vi against the anti-pope clement vii and his adherents, was in the poet gower's mind when he complains that while the law is ruled so, that clerks unto the war intend, i wot not how they should amend the woeful world in other things, and so make peace between the kings after the law of charity, which is the duty properly belonging unto the priesthood. a more general complaint, however, was that directing itself against the extravagance and luxury of life in which the dignified clergy indulged. the cost of these unspiritual pleasures the great prelates had ample means for defraying in the revenues of their sees; while lesser dignitaries had to be active in levying their dues or the fines of their courts, lest everything should flow into the receptacles of their superiors. so in chaucer's "friar's tale" an unfriendly regular says of an archdeacon,-- for small tithes and for small offering he made the people piteously to sing. for ere the bishop caught them on his hook, they were down in the archdeacons book. as a matter of course, the worthy who filled the office of "summoner" to the court of the archdeacon in question, had a keen eye for the profitable improprieties subject to its penalties, and was aided in his efforts by the professional abettors of vice whom he kept "ready to his hand." nor is it strange that the undisguised worldliness of many members of the clerical profession should have reproduced itself in other lay subordinates, even in the parish clerks, at all times apt to copy their betters, though we would fain hope such was not the case with the parish clerk, in "the jolly absalom" of the "miller's tale." the love of gold had corrupted the acknowledged chief guardians of incorruptible treasures, even though few may have avowed this love as openly as the "idle" "canon," whose "yeoman" had so strange a tale to tell to the canterbury pilgrims concerning his master's absorbing devotion to the problem of the multiplication of gold. to what a point the popular discontent with the vices of the higher secular clergy had advanced in the last decennium of the century, may be seen from the poem called the "complaint of the ploughman"--a production pretending to be by the same hand which in the "vision" had dwelt on the sufferings of the people and on the sinfulness of the ruling classes. justly or unjustly, the indictment was brought against the priests of being the agents of every evil influence among the people, the soldiers of an army of which the true head was not god, but belial. in earlier days the church had known how to compensate the people for the secular clergy's neglect, or imperfect performance, of its duties. but in no respect had the ecclesiastical world more changed than in this. the older monastic orders had long since lost themselves in unconcealed worldliness; how, for instance, had the benedictines changed their character since the remote times when their order had been the principal agent in revivifying the religion of the land! now, they were taunted with their very name, as having been bestowed upon them "by antiphrasis," i.e. by contraries. from many of their monasteries, and from the inmates who dwelt in these comfortable halls, had vanished even all pretence of disguise. chaucer's "monk" paid no attention to the rule of st. benedict, and of his disciple st. maur, because that it was old and somewhat strait; and preferred to fall in with the notions of later times. he was an "outrider, that loved venery," and whom his tastes and capabilities would have well qualified for the dignified post of abbot. he had "full many a dainty horse" in his stable, and the swiftest of greyhounds to boot; and rode forth gaily, clad in superfine furs and a hood elegantly fastened with a gold pin, and tied into a love-knot at the "greater end," while the bridle of his steed jingled as if its rider had been as good a knight as any of them--this last, by the way, a mark of ostentation against which wyclif takes occasion specially to inveigh. this monk (and chaucer must say that he was wise in his generation) could not understand why he should study books and unhinge his mind by the effort; life was not worth having at the price; and no one knew better to what use to put the pleasing gift of existence. hence mine host of the tabard, a very competent critic, had reason for the opinion which he communicated to the monk:-- it is a noble pasture where thou go'st; thou art not like a penitent or ghost. in the orders of nuns, certain corresponding features were becoming usual. but little in the way of religious guidance could fall to the lot of a sisterhood presided over by such a "prioress" as chaucer's madame eglantine, whose mind--possibly because her nunnery fulfilled the functions of a finishing school for young ladies--was mainly devoted to french and deportment, or by such a one as the historical lady juliana berners, of a rather later date, whose leisure hours produced treatises on hunting and hawking, and who would probably have on behalf of her own sex echoed the "monk's" contempt for the prejudice against the participation of the religious in field-sports:-- he gave not for that text a pulled hen that saith, that hunters be no holy men. on the other hand, neither did the mendicant orders, instituted at a later date purposely to supply what the older orders, as well as the secular clergy, seemed to have grown incapable of furnishing, any longer satisfy the reason of their being. in the fourteenth century the dominicans or black friars, who at london dwelt in such magnificence that king and parliament often preferred a sojourn with them to abiding at westminster, had in general grown accustomed to concentrate their activity upon the spiritual direction of the higher classes. but though they counted among them englishmen of eminence (one of these was chaucer's friend, "the philosophical strode"), they in truth never played a more than secondary part in this country, to whose soil the delicate machinery of the inquisition, of which they were by choice the managers, was never congenial. of far greater importance for the population of england at large was the order of the franciscans or (as they were here wont to call themselves or to be called) minorites or grey friars. to them the poor had habitually looked for domestic ministrations, and for the inspiring and consoling eloquence of the pulpit; and they had carried their labours into the midst of the suffering population, not afraid of association with that poverty which they were by their vow themselves bound to espouse, or of contact with the horrors of leprosy and the plague. departing from the short-sighted policy of their illustrious founder, they had become a learned, as well as a ministering and preaching order; and it was precisely from among them that, at oxford and elsewhere, sprang a succession of learned monks, whose names are inseparably connected with some of the earliest english growths of philosophical speculation and scientific research. nor is it possible to doubt that in the middle of the thirteenth century the monks of this order at oxford had exercised an appreciable influence upon the beginnings of a political struggle of unequalled importance for the progress of our constitutional life. but in the franciscans also the fourteenth century witnessed a change, which may be described as a gradual loss of the qualities for which they had been honourably distinguished; and in england, as elsewhere, the spirit of the words which dante puts into the mouth of st. francis of assisi was being verified by his degenerate children:-- so soft is flesh of mortals, that on earth a good beginning doth no longer last than while an oak may bring its fruit to birth. outwardly, indeed, the grey friars might still often seem what their predecessors had been, and might thus retain a powerful influence over the unthinking crowd, and to sheer worldlings appear as heretofore to represent a troublesome memento of unexciting religious obligations; "preach not," says chaucer's "host," "as friars do in lent, that they for our old sins may make us weep, nor in such wise thy tale make us to sleep." but in general men were beginning to suspect the motives as well as to deride the practices of the friars, to accuse them of lying against st. francis, and to desiderate for them an actual abode of fire, resembling that of which in their favourite religious shows they were wont to present the mimic semblance to the multitude. it was they who became in england as elsewhere the purveyors of charms and the organisers of pious frauds, while the learning for which their order had been famous was withering away into the yellow leaf of scholasticism. the friar in general became the common butt of literary satire; and though the populace still remained true to its favourite guides, a reaction was taking place in favour of the secular as against the regular clergy in the sympathies of the higher classes, and in the spheres of society most open to intellectual influences. the monks and the london multitude were at one time united against john of gaunt, but it was from the ranks of the secular clergy that wyclif came forth to challenge the ascendancy of franciscan scholasticism in his university. meanwhile the poet who in the "poor parson of the town" paints his ideal of a christian minister--simple, poor, and devoted to his holy work,--has nothing but contempt for the friars at large, and for the whole machinery worked by them, half effete, and half spasmodic, and altogether sham. in king arthur's time, says that accurate and unprejudiced observer the "wife of bath," the land was filled with fairies--now it is filled with friars as thick as motes in the beam of the sun. among them there is the "pardoner," i.e. seller of pardons (indulgences)--with his "haughty" sermons, delivered "by rote" to congregation after congregation in the self-same words, and everywhere accompanied by the self-same tricks of anecdotes and jokes,--with his papal credentials, and with the pardons he has brought from rome "all hot,"--and with precious relics to rejoice the hearts of the faithful, and to fill his own pockets with the proceeds: to wit, a pillowcase covered with the veil of our lady, and a piece of the sail of the ship in which st. peter went out fishing on the lake of gennesareth. this worthy, who lays bare his own motives with unparalleled cynical brutality, is manifestly drawn from the life;--or the portrait could not have been accepted which was presented alike by chaucer, and by his contemporary langland, and (a century and a half later) in the plagiarism of the orthodox catholic john heywood. there, again, is the "limitour," a friar licensed to beg, and to hear confession and grant absolution, within the limits of a certain district. he is described by chaucer with so much humour, that one can hardly suspect much exaggeration in the sketch. in him we have the truly popular ecclesiastic who springs from the people, lives among the people, and feels with the people. he is the true friend of the poor, and being such, has, as one might say, his finger in every pie: for "a fly and a friar will fall in every dish and every business." his readily-proffered arbitration settles the differences of the humbler classes at the "love-days," a favourite popular practice noted already in the "vision" of langland; nor is he a niggard of the mercies which he is privileged to dispense:-- full sweetly did he hear confession, and pleasant was his absolution. he was an easy man to give penance, whereso wist to have a good pittance; for unto a poor order for to give, is signe that a man is well y-shrive; for if he gave, he durste make a vaunt he wiste that a man was repentant. for many a man so hard is of his heart he can not weep although he sorely smart. therefore instead of weeping and of prayers men must give silver to the poore freres. already in the french "roman de la rose" the rivalry between the friars and the parish priests is the theme of much satire, evidently unfavourable to the former and favourable to the latter; but in england, where langland likewise dwells upon the jealousy between them, it was specially accentuated by the assaults of wyclif upon the mendicant orders. wyclif's simple priests, who at first ministered with the approval of the bishops, differed from the mendicants, first by not being beggars, and secondly by being poor. they might perhaps have themselves ultimately played the part of a new order in england, had not wyclif himself by rejecting the cardinal dogma of the church severed these followers of his from its organism and brought about their suppression. the question as to chaucer's own attitude towards the wycliffite movement will be more conveniently touched upon below; but the tone is unmistakable of the references or allusions to lollardry which he occasionally introduces into the mouth of his "host," whose voice is that vox populi which the upper and middle classes so often arrogate to themselves. whatever those classes might desire, it was not to have "cockle sown" by unauthorised intruders "in the corn" of their ordinary instruction. thus there is a tone of genuine attachment to the "vested interest" principle, and of aversion from all such interlopers as lay preachers and the like, in the "host's" exclamation, uttered after the "reeve," has been (in his own style) "sermoning" on the topic of old age:-- what availeth all this wit? what? should we speak all day of holy writ? the devil surely made a reeve to preach; for which he is as well suited as a cobbler would be for turning mariner or physician! thus, then, in the england of chaucer's days we find the church still in possession of vast temporal wealth and of great power and privileges,--as well as of means for enforcing unity of profession which the legislation of the lancastrian dynasty, stimulated by the prevailing fears of heresy, was still further to increase. on the other hand, we find the influence of the clergy over the minds of the people diminished though not extinguished. this was, in the case of the higher secular clergy, partly attributable to their self-indulgence or neglect of their functions, partly to their having been largely superseded by the regulars in the control of the religious life of the people. the orders we find no longer at the height of their influence, but still powerful by their wealth, their numbers, their traditional hold upon the lower classes, and their determination to retain this hold even by habitually resorting to the most dubious of methods. lastly, we find in the lower secular clergy, and doubtless may also assume it to have lingered among some of the regular, some of the salt left whose savour consists in a single-minded and humble resolution to maintain the highest standard of a religious life. but such "clerks" as these are at no times the most easily found, because it is not they who are always running it "unto london, unto st. paul's" on urgent private affairs. what wonder, that the real teaching of wyclif, of which the full significance could hardly be understood, but by a select few, should have virtually fallen dead upon his generation, to which the various agitations and agitators, often mingling ideas of religious reform with social and political grievances, seemed to be identical in character and alike to require suppression! in truth, of course, these movements and their agents were often very different from one another in their ends, and were not to be suppressed by the same processes. it should not be forgotten that in this century learning was, though only very gradually, ceasing to be a possession of the clergy alone. much doubt remains as to the extent of education--if a little reading, and less writing deserve the name--among the higher classes in this period of our national life. a cheering sign appears in the circumstance that the legal deeds of this age begin to bear signatures, and a reference to john of trevisa would bear out hallam's conjecture, that in the year "the average instruction of an english gentleman of the first class would comprehend common reading and writing, a considerable knowledge of french, and a slight tincture of latin." certain it is that in this century the barren teaching of the universities advanced but little towards the true end of all academical teaching--the encouragement and spread of the highest forms of national culture. to what use could a gentleman of edward iii's or richard ii's day have put the acquirements of a "clerk of oxenford" in aristotelian logic, supplemented perhaps by a knowledge of priscian, and the rhetorical works of cicero? chaucer's scholar, however much his learned modesty of manner and sententious brevity of speech may commend him to our sympathy and taste, is a man wholly out of the world in which he lives, though a dependent on its charity even for the means with which to purchase more of his beloved books. probably no trustworthier conclusions as to the literary learning and studies of those days are to be derived from any other source than from a comparison of the few catalogues of contemporary libraries remaining to us; and these help to show that the century was approaching its close before a few sparse rays of the first dawn of the italian renascence reached england. but this ray was communicated neither through the clergy nor through the universities; and such influence as was exercised by it upon the national mind, was directly due to profane poets,--men of the world, who like chaucer quoted authorities even more abundantly than they used them, and made some of their happiest discoveries after the fashion in which the "oxford clerk" came across petrarch's latin version of the story of patient grissel: as it were by accident. there is only too ample a justification for leaving aside the records of the history of learning in england during the latter half of the fourteenth century in any sketch of the main influences which in that period determined or affected the national progress. it was not by his theological learning that wyclif was brought into living contact with the current of popular thought and feeling. the universities were thriving exceedingly on the scholastic glories of previous ages; but the ascendancy was passing away to which oxford had attained over paris--during the earlier middle ages, and again in the fifteenth century until the advent of the renascence, the central university of europe in the favourite study of scholastic philosophy and theology. but we must turn from particular classes and ranks of men to the whole body of the population, exclusively of that great section of it which unhappily lay outside the observation of any but a very few writers--whether poets or historians. in the people at large we may, indeed, easily discern in this period the signs of an advance towards that self-government which is the true foundation of our national greatness. but on the other hand it is impossible not to observe how, while the moral ideas of the people wore still under the control of the church, the state in its turn still ubiquitously interfered in the settlement of the conditions of social existence, fixing prices, controlling personal expenditure, regulating wages. not until england had fully attained to the character of a commercial country, which it was coming gradually to assume, did its inhabitants begin to understand the value of that which has gradually come to distinguish ours among the nations of europe, viz. the right of individual englishmen, as well as of the english people, to manage their own affairs for themselves. this may help to explain what can hardly fail to strike a reader of chaucer and of the few contemporary remains of our literature. about our national life in this period, both in its virtues and in its vices, there is something--it matters little whether we call it--childlike or childish; in its "apert" if not in its privy sides it lacks the seriousness belonging to men and to generations, who have learnt to control themselves, instead of relying on the control of others. in illustration of this assertion, appeal might be made to several of the most salient features in the social life of the period. the extravagant expenditure in dress, fostered by a love of pageantry of various kinds encouraged by both chivalry and the church, has been already referred to; it was by no means distinctive of any one class of the population. among the friars who went about preaching homilies on the people's favourite vices some humorous rogues may, like the "pardoner" of the "canterbury tales," have made a point of treating their own favourite vice as their one and unchangeable text:-- my theme is always one, and ever was: radix malorum est cupiditas. but others preferred to dwell on specifically lay sins; and these moralists occasionally attributed to the love of expenditure on dress the impoverishment of the kingdom, forgetting in their ignorance of political economy and defiance of common sense, that this result was really due to the endless foreign wars. yet in contrast with the pomp and ceremony of life, upon which so great an amount of money and time and thought was wasted, are noticeable shortcomings by no means uncommon in the case of undeveloped civilisations (as for instance among the most typically childish or childlike nationalities of the europe of our own day), viz. discomfort and uncleanliness of all sorts. to this may be added the excessive fondness for sports and pastimes of all kinds, in which nations are aptest to indulge before or after the era of their highest efforts,--the desire to make life one long holiday, dividing it between tournaments and the dalliance of courts of love, or between archery-meetings (skilfully substituted by royal command for less useful exercises), and the seductive company of "tumblers," "fruiterers," and "waferers." furthermore, one may notice in all classes a far from eradicated inclination to superstitions of every kind,--whether those encouraged or those discouraged by the church (for holy church's faith, in our belief, suffereth no illusion us to grieve. "the franklin's tale."), --an inclination unfortunately fostered rather than checked by the uncertain gropings of contemporary science. hence, the credulous acceptance of relics like those sold by the "pardoner," and of legends like those related to chaucer's pilgrims by the "prioress" (one of the numerous repetitions of a cruel calumny against the jews), and by the "second nun" (the supra-sensual story of saint cecilia). hence, on the other hand, the greedy hunger for the marvels of astrology and alchemy, notwithstanding the growing scepticism even of members of a class represented by chaucer's "franklin" towards such folly as in our days is not held worth a fly, and notwithstanding the exposure of fraud by repentant or sickened accomplices, such as the gold-making "canon's yeoman." hence, again, the vitality of such quasi-scientific fancies as the magic mirror, of which miraculous instrument the "squire's" "half-told story" describes a specimen, referring to the incontestable authority of aristotle and others, who write "in their lives" concerning quaint mirrors and perspective glasses, as is well known to those who have "heard the books" of these sages. hence, finally, the corresponding tendency to eschew the consideration of serious religious questions, and to leave them to clerks, as if they were crabbed problems of theology. for in truth, while the most fertile and fertilising ideas of the middle ages had exhausted, or were rapidly coming to exhaust, their influence upon the people, the forms of the doctrines of the church--even of the most stimulative as well as of the most solemn among them,--had grown hard and stiff. to those who received if not to those who taught these doctrines they seemed alike lifeless, unless translated into the terms of the merest earthly transactions or the language of purely human relations. and thus, paradoxical as it might seem, cool-headed and conscientious rulers of the church thought themselves on occasion called upon to restrain rather than to stimulate the religious ardour of the multitude--fed as the flame was by very various materials. perhaps no more characteristic narrative has come down to us from the age of the poet of the "canterbury tales," than the story of bishop (afterwards archbishop) sudbury and the canterbury pilgrims. in the year the land was agitated through its length and breadth, on the occasion of the fourth jubilee of the national saint, thomas the martyr. the pilgrims were streaming in numbers along the familiar kentish road, when, on the very vigil of the feast, one of their companies was accidentally met by the bishop of london. they demanded his blessing; but to their astonishment and indignation he seized the occasion to read a lesson to the crowd on the uselessness to unrepentant sinners of the plenary indulgences, for the sake of which they were wending their way to the martyr's shrine. the rage of the multitude found a mouthpiece in a soldier, who loudly upbraided the bishop for stirring up the people against st. thomas, and warned him that a shameful death would befall him in consequence. the multitude shouted amen--and one is left to wonder whether any of the pious pilgrims who resented bishop sudbury's manly truthfulness, swelled the mob which eleven years later butchered "the plunderer" as it called him, "of the commons." it is such glimpses as this which show us how important the church had become towards the people. worse was to ensue before the better came; in the meantime, the nation was in that stage of its existence when the innocence of the child was fast losing itself, without the self-control of the man having yet taken its place. but the heart of england was sound the while. the national spirit of enterprise was not dead in any class, from knight to shipman; and faithfulness and chastity in woman were still esteemed the highest though not the universal virtues of her sex. the value of such evidence as the mind of a great poet speaking in his works furnishes for a knowledge of the times to which he belongs is inestimable. for it shows us what has survived, as well as what was doomed to decay, in the life of the nation with which that mind was in sensitive sympathy. and it therefore seemed not inappropriate to approach, in the first instance, from this point of view the subject of this biographical essay,--chaucer, "the poet of the dawn." for in him there are many things significant of the age of transition in which he lived; in him the mixture of frenchman and englishman is still in a sense incomplete, as that of their language is in the diction of his poems. his gaiety of heart is hardly english; nor is his willing (though, to be sure, not invariably unquestioning) acceptance of forms into the inner meaning of which he does not greatly vex his soul by entering; nor his airy way of ridiculing what he has no intention of helping to overthrow; nor his light unconcern in the question whether he is, or is not, an immoral writer. or, at least, in all of these things he has no share in qualities and tendencies, which influences and conflicts unknown to and unforeseen by him may be safely said to have ultimately made characteristic of englishmen. but he is english in his freedom and frankness of spirit; in his manliness of mind; in his preference for the good in things as they are to the good in things as they might be; in his loyalty, his piety, his truthfulness. of the great movement which was to mould the national character for at least a long series of generations he displays no serious foreknowledge; and of the elements already preparing to affect the course of that movement he shows a very incomplete consciousness. but of the health and strength which, after struggles many and various, made that movement possible and made it victorious, he, more than any one of his contemporaries, is the living type and the speaking witness. thus, like the times to which he belongs, he stands half in and half out of the middle ages, half in and half out of a phase of our national life, which we can never hope to understand more than partially and imperfectly. and it is this, taken together with the fact that he is the first english poet to read whom is to enjoy him, and that he garnished not only our language but our literature with blossoms still adorning them in vernal freshness,--which makes chaucer's figure so unique a one in the gallery of our great english writers, and gives to his works an interest so inexhaustible for the historical as well as for the literary student. chapter . chaucer's life and works. something has been already said as to the conflict of opinion concerning the period of geoffrey chaucer's birth, the precise date of which is very unlikely ever to be ascertained. a better fortune has attended the anxious enquiries which in his case, as in those of other great men have been directed to the very secondary question of ancestry and descent,--a question to which, in the abstract at all events, no man ever attached less importance than he. although the name "chaucer" is (according to thynne), to be found on the lists of battle abbey, this no more proves that the poet himself came of "high parage," than the reverse is to be concluded from the nature of his coat-of-arms, which speght thought must have been taken out of the th and th propositions of the first book of euclid. many a warrior of the norman conquest was known to his comrades only by the name of the trade which he had plied in some french or flemish town, before he attached himself a volunteer to duke william's holy and lucrative expedition; and it is doubtful whether even in the fourteenth century the name "le chaucer" is, wherever it occurs in london, used as a surname, or whether in some instances it is not merely a designation of the owner's trade. thus we should not be justified in assuming a french origin for the family from which richard le chaucer, whom we know to have been the poet's grandfather, was descended. whether or not he was at any time a shoemaker (chaucier, maker of chausses), and accordingly belonged to a gentle craft otherwise not unassociated with the history of poetry, richard was a citizen of london, and vintner, like his son john after him. john chaucer, whose wife's christian name may be with tolerable safety set down as agnes, owned a house in thames street, london, not far from the arch on which modern pilgrims pass by rail to canterbury or beyond, and in the neighbourhood of the great bridge, which in chaucer's own day, emptied its travellers on their errands, sacred or profane, into the great southern road, the via appia of england. the house afterwards descended to john's son, geoffrey, who released his right to it by deed in the year . chaucer's father was probably a man of some substance, the most usual personal recommendation to great people in one of his class. for he was at least temporarily connected with the court, inasmuch as he attended king edward iii and queen philippa on the memorable journey to flanders and germany, in the course of which the english monarch was proclaimed vicar of the holy roman empire on the left bank of the rhine. john chaucer died in , and in course of time his widow married another citizen and vintner. thomas heyroun, john chaucer's brother of the half-blood, was likewise a member of the same trade; so that the young geoffrey was certainly not brought up in an atmosphere of abstinence. the "host" of the "canterbury tales," though he takes his name from an actual personage, may therefore have in him touches of a family portrait; but chaucer himself nowhere displays any traces of a hereditary devotion to bacchus, and makes so experienced a practitioner as the "pardoner" the mouthpiece of as witty an invective against drunkenness as has been uttered by any assailant of our existing licensing laws. chaucer's own practice as well as his opinion on this head is sufficiently expressed in the characteristic words he puts into the mouth of cressid:-- in every thing, i wot, there lies measure: for though a man forbid all drunkenness, he biddeth not that every creature be drinkless altogether, as i guess. of geoffrey chaucer we know nothing whatever from the day of his birth (whenever it befell) to the year . his earlier biographers, who supposed him to have been born in , had accordingly a fair field open for conjecture and speculation. here it must suffice to risk the asseveration, that he cannot have accompanied his father to cologne in , and on that occasion have been first "taken notice of" by king and queen, if he was not born till two or more years afterwards. if, on the other hand, he was born in , both events may have taken place. on neither supposition is there any reason for believing that he studied at one--or at both--of our english universities. the poem cannot be accepted as chaucerian, the author of which (very possibly by a mere dramatic assumption) declares:-- philogenet i call'd am far and near, of cambridge clerk; nor can any weight be attached to the circumstance that the "clerk," who is one of the most delightful figures among the canterbury pilgrims, is an oxonian. the enticing enquiry as to so which of the sister universities may claim chaucer as her own must, therefore, be allowed to drop, together with the subsidiary question, whether stronger evidence of local colouring is furnished by the "miller's" picture of the life of a poor scholar in lodgings at oxford, or by the "reeve's" rival narrative of the results of a trumpington walk taken by two undergraduates of the "soler hall" at cambridge. equally baseless is the supposition of one of chaucer's earliest biographers, that he completed his academical studies at paris--and equally futile the concomitant fiction that in france "he acquired much applause by his literary exercises." finally, we have the tradition that he was a member of the inner temple--which is a conclusion deduced from a piece of genial scandal as to a record having been seen in that inn of a fine imposed upon him for beating a friar in fleet-street. this story was early placed by thynne on the horns of a sufficiently decisive dilemma: in the days of chaucer's youth, lawyers had not yet been admitted into the temple; and in the days of his maturity he is not very likely to have been found engaged in battery in a london thoroughfare. we now desert the region of groundless conjecture, in order with the year to arrive at a firm though not very broad footing of facts. in this year, "geoffrey chaucer" (whom it would be too great an effort of scepticism to suppose to have been merely a namesake of the poet) is mentioned in the household book of elizabeth countess of ulster, wife of prince lionel (third son of king edward iii, and afterwards duke of clarence), as a recipient of certain articles of apparel. two similar notices of his name occur up to the year . he is hence concluded to have belonged to prince lionel's establishment as squire or page to the lady elizabeth; and it was probably in the prince's retinue that he took part in the expedition of king edward iii into france, which began at the close of the year with the ineffectual siege of rheims, and in the next year, after a futile attempt upon paris, ended with the compromise of the peace of bretigny. in the course of this campaign chaucer was taken prisoner; but he was released without much loss of time, as appears by a document bearing date march st, , in which the king contributes the sum of pounds for chaucer's ransom. we may therefore conclude that he missed the march upon paris, and the sufferings undergone by the english army on their road thence to chartres--the most exciting experiences of an inglorious campaign; and that he was actually set free by the peace. when, in the year , we next meet with his name in authentic records, his earliest known patron, the lady elizabeth, is dead; and he has passed out of the service of prince lionel into that of king edward himself, as valet of whose chamber or household he receives a yearly salary for life of twenty marks, for his former and future services. very possibly he had quitted prince lionel's service when in that prince had by reason of his marriage with the heiress of ulster been appointed to the irish government by his father, who was supposed at one time to have destined him for the scottish throne. concerning the doings of chaucer in the interval between his liberation from his french captivity and the first notice of him as valet of the king's chamber we know nothing at all. during these years, however, no less important a personal event than his marriage was by earlier biographers supposed to have occurred. on the other hand, according to the view which commends itself to several eminent living commentators of the poet, it was not courtship and marriage, but a hopeless and unrequited passion, which absorbed these years of his life. certain stanzas in which, as they think, he gave utterance to this passion are by them ascribed to one of these years; so that if their view were correct, the poem in question would have to be regarded as the earliest of his extant productions. the problem which we have indicated must detain us for a moment. it is attested by documentary evidence, that in the year , chaucer had a wife by name philippa, who had been in the service of john of gaunt, duke of lancaster, and of his duchess (doubtless his second wife, constance), as well as in that of his mother the good queen philippa, and who, on several occasions afterwards, besides special new year's gifts of silver-gilt cups from the duke, received her annual pension of ten marks through her husband. it is likewise proved that, in , a pension of ten marks was granted to _a_ philippa chaucer, one of the ladies of the queen's chamber. obviously, it is a highly probable assumption that these two philippa chaucers were one and the same person; but in the absence of any direct proof it is impossible to affirm as certain, or to deny as demonstrably untrue, that the philippa chaucer of owed her surname to marriage. yet the view was long held, and is still maintained by writers of knowledge and insight, that the phillipa of was at that date chaucer's wife. in or before that year he married, it was said, philippa roet, daughter of sir paon de roet of hainault, guienne king of arms, who came to england in queen philippa's retinue in . this tradition derived special significance from the fact that another daughter of sir paon, katharine, widow of sir hugh swynford, was successively governess, mistress, and (third) wife to the duke of lancaster, to whose service both geoffrey and philippa chaucer were at one time attached. it was apparently founded on the circumstance that thomas chaucer, the supposed son of the poet, quartered the roet arms with his own. but unfortunately there is no evidence to show that thomas chaucer was a son of geoffrey; and the superstructure must needs vanish with its basis. it being then no longer indispensable to assume chaucer to have been a married man in , the philippa chaucer of that year may have been only a namesake, and possibly a relative, of geoffrey; for there were other chaucers in london besides him and his father (who died this year), and one chaucer at least has been found who was well-to-do enough to have a damsel of the queen's chamber for his daughter in these certainly not very exclusive times. there is accordingly no proof that chaucer was a married man before , when he is known to have received a pension for his own and his wife's services. but with this negative result we are asked not to be poor-spirited enough to rest content. at the opening of his "book of the duchess," a poem certainly written towards the end of the year , chaucer makes use of certain expressions, both very pathetic and very definite. the most obvious interpretation of the lines in question seems to be that they contain the confession of a hopeless passion, which has lasted for eight years--a confession which certainly seems to come more appropriately and more naturally from an unmarried than from a married man. "for eight years," he says, or seems to say, "i have loved, and loved in vain--and yet my cure is never the nearer. there is but one physician that can heal me--but all that is ended and done with. let us pass on into fresh fields; what cannot be obtained must needs be left." it seems impossible to interpret this passage (too long to cite in extenso) as a complaint of married life. many other poets have indeed complained of their married lives, and chaucer (if the view to be advanced below be correct) as emphatically as any. but though such occasional exclamations of impatience or regret--more especially when in a comic vein--may receive pardon, or even provoke amusement, yet a serious and sustained poetic version of sterne's "sum multum fatigatus de uxore mea" would be unbearable in any writer of self-respect, and wholly out of character in chaucer. even byron only indited elegies about his married life after his wife had left him. now, among chaucer's minor poems is preserved one called the "complaint of the death of pity," which purports to set forth "how pity is dead and buried in a gentle heart," and, after testifying to a hopeless passion, ends with the following declaration, addressed to pity, as in a "bill" or letter:-- this is to say: i will be yours for ever, though ye me slay by cruelty, your foe; yet shall my spirit nevermore dissever from your service, for any pain or woe, pity, whom i have sought so long ago! thus for your death i may well weep and plain, with heart all sore, and full of busy pain. if this poem be autobiographical, it would indisputably correspond well enough to a period in chaucer's life, and to a mood of mind preceding those to which the introduction to the "book of the duchess" belongs. if it be not autobiographical--and in truth there is nothing to prove it such, so that an attempt has been actually made to suggest its having been intended to apply to the experiences of another man--then the "complaint of pity" has no special value for students of chaucer, since its poetic beauty, as there can be no harm in observing, is not in itself very great. to come to an end of this topic, there seems no possibility of escaping from one of the following alternatives. either the philippa chaucer of was geoffrey chaucer's wife, whether or not she was philippa roet before marriage, and the lament of had reference to another lady--an assumption to be regretted in the case of a married man, but not out of the range of possibility. or--and this seems on the whole the most probable view--the philippa chaucer of was a namesake whom geoffrey married some time after , possibly, (of course only possibly,) the very lady whom he had loved hopelessly for eight years, and persuaded himself that he had at last relinquished--and who had then relented after all. this last conjecture it is certainly difficult to reconcile with the conclusion at which we arrive on other grounds, that chaucer's married life was not one of preponderating bliss. that he and his wife were cousins is a pleasing thought, but one which is not made more pleasing by the seeming fact that, if they were so related, marriage in their case failed to draw close that hearts' bond which such kinship at times half unconsciously knits. married or still a bachelor, chaucer may fairly be supposed, during part of the years previous to that in which we find him securely established in the king's service, to have enjoyed a measure of independence and leisure open to few men in his rank of life, when once the golden days of youth and early manhood have passed away. such years are in many men's lives marked by the projection, or even by the partial accomplishment, of literary undertakings on a large scale, and more especially of such as partake of an imitative character. when a juvenile and facile writer's taste is still unsettled, and his own style is as yet unformed, he eagerly tries his hand at the reproduction of the work of others; translates the "iliad" or "faust," or suits himself with unsuspecting promptitude to the production of masques, or pastorals, or life dramas--or whatever may be the prevailing fashion in poetry--after the manner of the favourite literary models of the day. a priori, therefore, everything is in favour of the belief hitherto universally entertained, that among chaucer's earliest poetical productions was the extant english translation of the french "roman de la rose." that he made some translation of this poem is a fact resting on his own statement in a passage indisputably written by him (in the "prologue" to the "legend of good women"); nor is the value of this statement reduced by the negative circumstance, that in the extraordinary tag (if it may be called by so irreverent a name) to the extant "canterbury tales," the "romaunt of the rose" is passed over in silence, or at least not nominally mentioned, among the objectionable works which the poet is there made to retract. and there seems at least no necessity for giving in to the conclusion that chaucer's translation has been lost, and was not that which has been hitherto accepted as his. for this conclusion is based upon the use of a formal test, which in truth need not be regarded as of itself absolutely decisive in any case, but which in this particular instance need not be held applicable at all. a particular rule against rhyming with one another particular sounds, which in his later poems chaucer seems invariably to have followed, need not have been observed by him in what was actually, or all but, his earliest. the unfinished state of the extant translation accords with the supposition that chaucer broke it off on adopting (possibly after conference with gower, who likewise observes the rule) a more logical practice as to the point in question. moreover, no english translation of this poem besides chaucer's is ever known to have existed. whither should the youthful poet, when in search of materials on which to exercise a ready but as yet untrained hand, have so naturally turned as to french poetry, and in its domain whither so eagerly as to its universally acknowledged master-piece? french verse was the delight of the court, into the service of which he was about this time preparing permanently to enter, and with which he had been more or less connected from his boyhood. in french chaucer's contemporary gower composed not only his first longer work, but not less than fifty ballads or sonnets, and in french (as well as in english) chaucer himself may have possibly in his youth set his own 'prentice hand to the turning of "ballades, rondels, virelayes." the time had not yet arrived, though it was not far distant, when his english verse was to attest his admiration of machault, whose fame froissart and froissart's imitations had brought across from the french court to the english; and when gransson, who served king richard ii as a squire, was extolled by his english adapter as the "flower of them that write in france." but as yet chaucer's own tastes, his french blood, if he had any in his veins, and the familiarity with the french tongue which he had already had opportunities of acquiring, were more likely to commend to him productions of broader literary merits and a wider popularity. from these points of view, in the days of chaucer's youth, there was no rival to the "roman de la rose," one of those rare works on which the literary history of whole generations and centuries may be said to hinge. the middle ages, in which from various causes the literary intercommunication between the nations of europe was in some respects far livelier than it has been in later times, witnessed the appearance of several such works--diverse in kind but similar to one another in the universality of their popularity: "the consolation of philosophy," the "divine comedy," the "imitation of christ," the "roman de la rose," the "ship of fools." the favour enjoyed by the "roman de la rose," was in some ways the most extraordinary of all. in france, this work remained the dominant work of poetic literature, and "the source whence every rhymer drew for his needs" down to the period of the classical revival led by ronsard (when it was edited by clement marot, spenser's early model). in england, it exercised an influence only inferior to that which belonged to it at home upon both the matter and the form of poetry down to the renascence begun by surrey and wyatt. this extraordinary literary influence admits of a double explanation. but just as the authorship of the poem was very unequally divided between two personages, wholly divergent in their purposes as writers, so the popularity of the poem is probably in the main to be attributed to the second and later of the pair. to the trouvere guillaume de lorris (who took his name from a small town in the valley of the loire) was due the original conception of the "roman de la rose," for which it is needless to suspect any extraneous source. to novelty of subject he added great ingenuity of treatment. instead of narrative of warlike adventures he offered to his readers a psychological romance, in which a combination of symbolisations and personified abstractions supplied the characters of the moral conflict represented. bestiaries and lapidaries had familiarised men's minds with the art of finding a symbolical significance in particular animals and stones; and the language of poets was becoming a language of flowers. on the other hand, the personification of abstract qualities was a usage largely affected by the latin writers of the earlier middle ages, and formed a favourite device of the monastic beginnings of the christian drama. for both these literary fashions, which mildly exercised the ingenuity while deeply gratifying the tastes of mediaeval readers, room was easily found by guillaume de lorris within a framework in itself both appropriate and graceful. he told (as reproduced by his english translator) how in a dream he seemed to himself to wake up on a may morning. sauntering forth, he came to a garden surrounded by a wall, on which were depicted many unkindly figures, such as hate and villainy, and avarice and old age, and another thing that seemed like a hypocrite, and it was cleped pope holy. within, all seemed so delicious that, feeling ready to give an hundred pound for the chance of entering, he smote at a small wicket and was admitted by a courteous maiden named idleness. on the sward in the garden were dancing its owner, sir mirth, and a company of friends; and by the side of gladness the dreamer saw the god of love and his attendant, a bachelor named sweet-looking, who bore two bows, each with five arrows. of these bows the one was straight and fair, and the other crooked and unsightly, and each of the arrows bore the name of some quality or emotion by which love is advanced or hindered. and as the dreamer was gazing into the spring of narcissus (the imagination), he beheld a rose-tree "charged full of roses," and, becoming enamoured of one of them, eagerly advanced to pluck the object of his passion. in the midst of this attempt he was struck by arrow upon arrow, shot "wonder smart" by love from the strong bow. the arrow called company completes the victory; the dreaming poet becomes the lover ("l'amant"), and swears allegiance to the god of love, who proceeds to instruct him in his laws; and the real action (if it is to be called such) of the poem begins. this consists in the lover's desire to possess himself of the rosebud, the opposition offered to him by powers both good and evil, and by reason in particular, and the support which he receives from more or less discursive friends. clearly, the conduct of such a scheme as this admits of being varied in many ways and protracted to any length; but its first conception is easy and natural, and when it was novel to boot, was neither commonplace nor ill-chosen. after writing about one-fifth of the , verses of which the original french poem consists, guillaume de lorris, who had executed his part of the task in full sympathy with the spirit of the chivalry of his times, died, and left the work to be continued by another trouvere, jean de meung (so-called from the town, near lorris, in which he lived). "hobbling john" took up the thread of his predecessor's poem in the spirit of a wit and an encyclopaedist. indeed, the latter appellation suits him in both its special and its general sense. beginning with a long dialogue between reason and the lover, he was equally anxious to display his freedom of criticism and his universality of knowledge, both scientific and anecdotical. his vein was pre-eminently satirical and abundantly allusive; and among the chief objects of his satire are the two favourite themes of medieval satire in general, religious hypocrisy (personified in "faux-semblant," who has been described as one of the ancestors of "tartuffe"), and the foibles of women. to the gross salt of jean de meung, even more than to the courtly perfume of guillaume de lorris, may be ascribed the long-lived popularity of the "roman de la rose"; and thus a work, of which already the theme and first conception imply a great step forwards from the previous range of mediaeval poetry, became a favourite with all classes by reason of the piquancy of its flavour, and the quotable applicability of many of its passages. out of a chivalrous allegory jean de meung had made a popular satire; and though in its completed form it could look for no welcome in many a court or castle,--though petrarch despised it, and gerson in the name of the church recorded a protest against it,--and though a bevy of offended ladies had well-nigh taken the law into their own hands against its author,--yet it commanded a vast public of admirers. and against such a popularity even an offended clergy, though aided by the sneers of the fastidious and the vehemence of the fair, is wont to contend in vain. chaucer's translation of this poem is thought to have been the cause which called forth from eustace deschamps, machault's pupil and nephew, the complimentary ballade in the refrain of which the englishman is saluted as grant translateur, noble gelfroi chaucier. but whether or not such was the case, his version of the "roman de la rose" seems, on the whole, to be a translation properly so called--although, considering the great number of mss. existing of the french original, it would probably be no easy task to verify the assertion that in one or the other of these are to be found the few passages thought to have been interpolated by chaucer. on the other hand, his omissions are extensive; indeed, the whole of his translation amounts to little more than one-third of the french original. it is all the more noteworthy that chaucer reproduces only about one-half of the part contributed by jean de meung, and again condenses this half to one-third of its length. in general, he has preserved the french names of localities, and even occasionally helps himself to a rhyme by retaining a french word. occasionally he shows a certain timidity as a translator, speaking of "the tree which in france men call a pine," and pointing out, so that there may be no mistake, that mermaidens are called it "sereyns" (sirenes) in france. on the other hand, his natural vivacity now and then suggests to him a turn of phrase or an illustration of his own. as a loyal english courtier he cannot compare a fair bachelor to any one so aptly as to "the lord's son of windsor;" and as writing not far from the time when the statute of kilkenny was passed, he cannot lose the opportunity of inventing an irish parentage for wicked-tongue: so full of cursed rage it well agreed with his lineage; for him an irishwoman bare. the debt which chaucer in his later works owed to the "roman of the rose" was considerable, and by no means confined to the favourite may-morning exordium and the recurring machinery of a vision--to the origin of which latter (the dream of scipio related by cicero and expounded in the widely-read commentary of macrobius) the opening lines of the "romaunt" point. he owes to the french poem both the germs of felicitous phrases, such as the famous designation of nature as "the vicar of the almighty lord," and perhaps touches used by him in passages like that in which he afterwards, with further aid from other sources, drew the character of a true gentleman. but the main service which the work of this translation rendered to him was the opportunity which it offered of practising and perfecting a ready and happy choice of words,--a service in which, perhaps, lies the chief use of all translation, considered as an exercise of style. how far he had already advanced in this respect, and how lightly our language was already moulding itself in his hands, may be seen from several passages in the poem; for instance, from that about the middle, where the old and new theme of self-contradictoriness of love is treated in endless variations. in short, chaucer executed his task with facility, and frequently with grace, though for one reason or another he grew tired of it before he had carried it out with completeness. yet the translation (and this may have been among the causes why he seems to have wearied of it) has notwithstanding a certain air of schoolwork; and though chaucer's next poem, to which incontestable evidence assigns the date of the year , is still very far from being wholly original, yet the step is great from the "romaunt of the rose" to the "book of the duchess." among the passages of the french "roman de la rose" omitted in chaucer's translation are some containing critical reflexions on the character of kings and constituted authorities--a species of observations which kings and constituted authorities have never been notorious for loving. this circumstance, together with the reference to windsor quoted above, suggests the probability that chaucer's connexion with the court had not been interrupted, or had been renewed, or was on the eve of renewing itself, at the time when he wrote this translation. in becoming a courtier, he was certainly placed within the reach of social opportunities such as in his day he could nowhere else have enjoyed. in england as well as in italy during the fourteenth and the two following centuries; as the frequent recurrence of the notion attests, the "good" courtier seemed the perfection of the idea of gentleman. at the same time exaggerated conceptions of the courtly breeding of chaucer's and froissart's age may very easily be formed; and it is almost amusing to contrast with chaucer's generally liberal notions of manners, severe views of etiquette like that introduced by him at the close of the "man of law's tale," where he stigmatizes as a solecism the statement of the author from whom he copied his narrative, that king aella sent his little boy to invite the emperor to dinner. "it is best to deem he went himself." the position which in june, , we find chaucer holding at court is that of "valettus" to the king, or, as a later document of may, , has it, of "valettus camerae regis"--valet or yeoman of the king's chamber. posts of this kind, which involved the ordinary functions of personal attendance--the making of beds, the holding of torches, the laying of tables, the going on messages, etc.--were usually bestowed upon young men of good family. in due course of time a royal valet usually rose to the higher post of royal squire--either "of the household" generally, or of a more special kind. chaucer appears in as an "esquire of less degree," his name standing seventeenth in a list of seven-and-thirty. after the year he is never mentioned by the lower, but several times by latin equivalents of the higher, title. frequent entries occur of the pension or salary of twenty marks granted to him for life; and, as will be seen, he soon began to be employed on missions abroad. he had thus become a regular member of the royal establishment, within the sphere of which we must suppose the associations of the next years of his life to have been confined. they belonged to a period of peculiar significance both for the english people and for the plantagenet dynasty, whose glittering exploits reflected so much transitory glory on the national arms. at home, these years were the brief interval between two of the chief visitations of the black death ( and ), and a few years earlier the poet of the "vision" had given voice to the sufferings of the poor. it was not, however, the mothers of the people crying for their children whom the courtly singer remembered in his elegy written in the year ; the woe to which he gave a poetic expression was that of a princely widower temporarily inconsolable for the loss of his first wife. in the black prince was conquering castile (to be lost again before the year was out) for that interesting protege of the plantagenets and representative of legitimate right, don pedro the cruel, whose daughter the inconsolable widower was to espouse in , and whose "tragic" downfall chaucer afterwards duly lamented in his "monk's tale":-- o noble, o worthy pedro, glory of spain, whom fortune held so high in majesty! as yet the star of the valiant prince of wales had not been quenched in the sickness which was the harbinger of death; and his younger brother, john of gaunt, though already known for his bravery in the field (he commanded the reinforcements sent to spain in ), had scarcely begun to play the prominent part in politics which he was afterwards to fill. but his day was at hand, and the anti-clerical tenour of the legislation and of the administrative changes of these years was in entire harmony with the policy of which he was to constitute himself the representative. is the year of the statute of provisors, and that of the dismissal of william of wykeham. john of gaunt was born in , and was, therefore, probably of much the same age as chaucer, and like him now in the prime of life. nothing could accordingly be more natural than that a more or less intimate relation should have formed itself between them. this relation, there is reason to believe, afterwards ripened on chaucer's part into one of distinct political partisanship, of which there could as yet (for the reason given above) hardly be a question. there was, however, so far as we know, nothing in chaucer's tastes and tendencies to render it antecedently unlikely that he should have been ready to follow the fortunes of a prince who entered the political arena as an adversary of clerical predominance. had chaucer been a friend of it in principle, he would hardly have devoted his first efforts as a writer to the translation of the "roman de la rose." in so far, therefore, and in truth it is not very far, as john of gaunt may be afterwards said to have been a wycliffite, the same description might probably be applied to chaucer. with such sentiments a personal orthodoxy was fully reconcileable in both patron and follower; and the so-called "chaucer's a. b. c.," a version of a prayer to the virgin in a french poetical "pilgrimage," might with equal probability have been put together by him either early or late in the course of his life. there was, however, a tradition, repeated by speght, that this piece was composed "at the request of blanche, duchess of lancaster, as a prayer for her private use, being a woman in her religion very devout." if so, it must have been written before the duchess's death, which occurred in ; and we may imagine it, if we please, with its twenty-three initial letters blazoned in red and blue and gold on a flyleaf inserted in the book of the pious duchess,--herself, in the fervent language of the poem, an illuminated calendar, as being lighted in this world with the virgin's holy name. in the autumn of , then, the duchess blanche died an early death; and it is pleasing to know that john of gaunt, to whom his marriage with her had brought wealth and a dukedom, ordered services, in pious remembrance of her, to be held at her grave. the elaborate elegy which--very possibly at the widowed duke's request--was composed by chaucer, leaves no doubt as to the identity of the lady whose loss it deplores:-- --goode faire "white" she hight; thus was my lady named right; for she was both fair and bright. but, in accordance with the taste of his age, which shunned such sheer straightforwardness in poetry, the "book of the duchess" contains no further transparent reference to the actual circumstances of the wedded life which had come to so premature an end--for john of gaunt had married blanche of lancaster in ;--and an elaborate framework is constructed round the essential theme of the poem. already, however, the instinct of chaucer's own poetic genius had taught him the value of personal directness; and, artificially as the course of the poem is arranged, it begins in the most artless and effective fashion with an account given by the poet of his own sleeplessness and its cause already referred to--an opening so felicitous that it was afterwards imitated by froissart. and so, chaucer continues, as he could not sleep, to drive the night away he sat upright in his bed reading a "romance," which he thought better entertainment than chess or draughts. the book which he read was the "metamorphoses" of ovid; and in it he chanced on the tale of ceyx and alcyone--the lovers whom, on their premature death, the compassion of juno changed into the seabirds that bring good luck to mariners. of this story (whether chaucer derived it direct from ovid, or from machault's french version is disputed), the earlier part serves as the introduction to the poem. the story breaks off--with the dramatic abruptness in which chaucer is a master, and which so often distinguishes his versions from their originals--at the death of alcyone, caused by her grief at the tidings brought by morpheus of her husband's death. thus subtly the god of sleep and the death of a loving wife mingle their images in the poet's mind; and with these upon him he falls asleep "right upon his book." what more natural, after this, than the dream which came to him? it was may, and he lay in his bed at morning-time, having been awakened out of his slumbers by the "small fowls," who were carolling forth their notes--"some high, some low, and all of one accord." the birds singing their matins around the poet, and the sun shining brightly through his windows stained with many a figure of poetic legend, and upon the walls painted in fine colours "both text and gloss, and all the romaunt of the rose"--is not this a picture of chaucer by his own hand, on which, one may love to dwell? and just as the poem has begun with a touch of nature, and at the beginning of its main action has returned to nature, so through the whole of its course it maintains the same tone. the sleeper awakened--still of course in his dream--hears the sound of the horn, and the noise of huntsmen preparing for the chase. he rises, saddles his horse, and follows to the forest, where the emperor octavian (a favourite character of carolingian legend, and pleasantly revived under this aspect by the modern romanticist, ludwig tieck--in chaucer's poem probably a flattering allegory for the king) is holding his hunt. the deer having been started, the poet is watching the course of the hunt, when he is approached by a dog, which leads him to a solitary spot in a thicket among mighty trees; and here of a sudden he comes upon a man in black, sitting silently by the side of a huge oak. how simple and how charming is the device of the faithful dog acting as a guide into the mournful solitude of the faithful man! for the knight whom the poet finds thus silent and alone, is rehearsing to himself a lay, "a manner song," in these words:-- i have of sorrow so great wone, that joye get i never none, now that i see my lady bright, which i have loved with all my might, is from me dead, and is agone. alas! death, what aileth thee that thou should'st not have taken me, when that thou took'st my lady sweet? that was so fair, so fresh, so free, so goode, that men may well see of all goodness she had no meet. seeing the knight overcome by his grief, and on the point of fainting, the poet accosts him, and courteously demands his pardon for the intrusion. thereupon the disconsolate mourner, touched by this token of sympathy, breaks out into the tale of his sorrow which forms the real subject of the poem. it is a lament for the loss of a wife who was hard to gain (the historical basis of this is unknown, but great heiresses are usually hard to gain for cadets even of royal houses), and whom, alas! her husband was to lose so soon after he had gained her. nothing could be simpler, and nothing could be more delightful than the black knight's description of his lost lady as she was at the time when he wooed and almost despaired of winning her. many of the touches in this description--and among them some of the very happiest--are, it is true, borrowed from the courtly machault; but nowhere has chaucer been happier, both in his appropriations and in the way in which he has really converted them into beauties of his own, than in this, perhaps the most lifelike picture of maidenhood in the whole range of our literature. or is not the following the portrait of an english girl, all life and all innocence--a type not belonging, like its opposite, to any "period" in particular--? i saw her dance so comelily, carol and sing so sweetely, and laugh, and play so womanly, and looke so debonairly, so goodly speak and so friendly, that, certes, i trow that nevermore was seen so blissful a treasure. for every hair upon her head, sooth to say, it was not red, nor yellow neither, nor brown it was, methought most like gold it was. and ah! what eyes my lady had, debonair, goode, glad and sad, simple, of good size, not too wide. thereto her look was not aside. nor overthwart; but so well set that, whoever beheld her was drawn and taken up by it, every part of him. her eyes seemed every now and then as if she were inclined to be merciful, such was the delusion of fools: a delusion in very truth, for it was no counterfeited thing; it was her owne pure looking; so the goddess, dame nature, had made them open by measure and close; for were she never so glad, not foolishly her looks were spread, nor wildely, though that she play'd; but ever, methought, her eyen said: "by god, my wrath is all forgiven." and at the same time she liked to live so happily that dulness was afraid of her; she was neither too "sober" nor too glad; in short, no creature had over more measure in all things. such was the lady whom the knight had won for himself, and whose virtues he cannot weary of rehearsing to himself or to a sympathising auditor. "sir!" quoth i, "where is she now?" "now?" quoth he, and stopped anon; therewith he waxed as dead as stone, and said: "alas that i was bore! that was the loss! and heretofore i told to thee what i had lost. bethink thee what i said. thou know'st in sooth full little what thou meanest: i have lost more than thou weenest. god wot, alas! right that was she." "alas, sir, how? what may that be? "she is dead." "nay?" "yes, by my truth!" is that your loss? by god, it is ruth." and with that word, the hunt breaking up, the knight and the poet depart to a "long castle with white walls on a rich hill" (richmond?), where a bell tolls and awakens the poet from his slumbers, to let him find himself lying in his bed, and the book with its legend of love and sleep resting in his hand. one hardly knows at whom more to wonder--whether at the distinguished french scholar who sees so many trees that he cannot see a forest, and who, not content with declaring the "book of the duchess," as a whole as well as in its details, a servile imitation of machault, pronounces it at the same time one of chaucer's feeblest productions; or at the equally eminent english scholar who, with a flippancy which for once ceases to be amusing, opines that chaucer ought to "have felt ashamed of himself for this most lame and impotent conclusion" of a poem "full of beauties," and ought to have been "caned for it!" not only was this "lame and impotent conclusion" imitated by spenser in his lovely elegy, "daphnaida" (i have been anticipated in pointing out this fact by the author of the biographical essay on "spenser" in this series--an essay to which i cannot help taking this opportunity of offering a tribute of sincere admiration. it may not be an undesigned coincidence that the inconsolable widower of the "daphnaida" is named alcyon, while chaucer's poem begins with a reference to the myth of ceyx and alcyone. sir arthur gorges re-appears in alcyon in "colin clout's come home again."); but it is the first passage in chaucer's writings revealing, one would have thought unmistakeably, the dramatic power which was among his most characteristic gifts. the charm of this poem, notwithstanding all the artificialities with which it is overlaid, lies in its simplicity and truth to nature. a real human being is here brought before us instead of a vague abstraction; and the glow of life is on the page, though it has to tell of death and mourning. chaucer is finding his strength by dipping into the true spring of poetic inspiration; and in his dreams he is awaking to the real capabilities of his genius. though he is still uncertain of himself and dependent on others, it seems not too much to say that already in this "book of the duchess" he is in some measure an original poet. how unconscious, at the same time, this waking must have been is manifest from what little is known concerning the course of both his personal and his literary life during the next few years. but there is a tide in the lives of poets, as in those of other men, on the use or neglect of which their future seems largely to depend. for more reasons than one chaucer may have been rejoiced to be employed on the two missions abroad, which apparently formed his chief occupation during the years - . in the first place, the love of books, which he so frequently confesses, must in him have been united to a love of seeing men and cities; few are observers of character without taking pleasure in observing it. of his literary labours he probably took little thought during these years; although the visit which in the course of them he paid to italy may be truly said to have constituted the turning-point in his literary life. no work of his can be ascribed to this period with certainty; none of importance has ever been ascribed to it. on the latter of these missions chaucer, who left england in the winter of , visited genoa and florence. his object at the former city was to negotiate concerning the settlement of a genoese mercantile factory in one of our ports, for in this century there already existed between genoa and england a commercial intercourse, which is illustrated by the obvious etymology of the popular term "jane" occurring in chaucer in the sense of any small coin. ("a jane" is in the "clerk's tale" said to be a sufficient value at which to estimate the "stormy people") it has been supposed that on this journey he met at padua petrarch, whose residence was near by at arqua. the statement of the "clerk" in the "canterbury tales" that he learnt the story of patient griseldis "at padua of a worthy clerk...now dead," who was called "francis petrarch, the laureate poet," may of course merely imply that chaucer borrowed the "clerk's tale" from petrarch's latin version of the original by boccaccio. but the meeting which the expression suggests may have actually taken place, and may have been accompanied by the most suitable conversation which the imagination can supply; while, on the other hand, it is a conjecture unsupported by any evidence whatever, that a previous meeting between the pair had occurred at milan in , when lionel duke of clarence was married to his second wife with great pomp in the presence of petrarch and of froissart. the really noteworthy point is this: that while neither (as a matter of course) the translated "romaunt of the rose," nor the "book of the duchess" exhibits any traces of italian influence, the same assertion cannot safely be made with regard to any important poem produced by chaucer after the date of this italian journey. the literature of italy which was--and in the first instance through chaucer himself--to exercise so powerful an influence upon the progress of our own, was at last opened to him, though in what measure, and by what gradations, must remain undecided. before him lay both the tragedies and the comedies, as he would have called them, of the learned and brilliant boccaccio--both his epic poems and that inexhaustible treasure-house of stories which petrarch praised for its pious and grave contents, albeit they were mingled with others of undeniable jocoseness--the immortal "decamerone." he could examine the refined gold of petrarch's own verse with its exquisite variations of its favourite pure theme and its adequate treatment of other elevated subjects; and he might gaze down the long vista of pictured reminiscences, grand and sombre, called up by the mightiest muse of the middle ages, the muse of dante. chaucer's genius, it may said at once was not transformed by its contact with italian literature; for a conscious desire as well as a conscientious effort is needed for bringing about such a transformation; and to compare the results of his first italian journey with those of goethe's pilgrimage across the alps, for instance, would be palpably absurd. it might even be doubted whether for the themes which he was afterwards likely to choose, and actually did choose, for poetic treatment the materials at his command in french (and english) poetry and prose would not have sufficed him. as it was, it seems probable that he took many things from italian literature; it is certain that he learnt much from it. there seems every reason to conclude that the influence of italian study upon chaucer made him more assiduous as well as more careful in the employment of his poetic powers--more hopeful at once, if one may so say, and more assured of himself. meanwhile, soon after his return from his second foreign mission, he was enabled to begin a more settled life at home. he had acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the crown, as is shown by the grant for life of a daily pitcher of wine, made to him on april rd, , the merry day of the feast of st. george. it would of course be a mistake to conclude, from any seeming analogies of later times, that this grant, which was received by chaucer in money-value, and which seems finally to have been commuted for an annual payment of twenty marks, betokened on the part of the king a spirit of patronage appropriate to the claims of literary leisure. how remote such a notion was from the minds of chaucer's employers is proved by the terms of the patent by which, in the month of june following, he was appointed comptroller of the customs and subsidy of wools, skins, and tanned hides in the port of london. this patent (doubtless according to the usual official form) required him to write the rolls of his office with his own hand, to be continually present there, and to perform his duties in person and not by deputy. by a warrant of the same month chaucer was granted the pension of pounds for life already mentioned, for services rendered by him and his wife to the duke and duchess of lancaster and to the queen; by two successive grants of the year he received further pecuniary gratifications of a more or less temporary nature; and he continued to receive his pension and allowance for robes as one of the royal esquires. we may therefore conceive of him as now established in a comfortable as well as seemingly secure position. his regular work as comptroller (of which a few scattered documentary vestiges are preserved) scarcely offers more points for the imagination to exercise itself upon than burns's excisemanship or wordsworth's collectorship of stamps (it is a curious circumstance that dryden should have received as a reward for his political services as a satirist, an office almost identical with chaucer's. but he held it for little more than a year.), though doubtless it must have brought him into constant contact with merchants and with shipmen, and may have suggested to him many a broad descriptive touch. on the other hand, it is not necessary to be a poet to feel something of that ineffable ennui of official life, which even the self-compensatory practice of arriving late at one's desk, but departing from it early, can only abate, but not take away. the passage has been often quoted in which chaucer half implies a feeling of the kind, and tells how he sought recreation from what charles lamb would have called his "works" at the custom house in the reading, as we know he did in the writing, of other books:-- --when thy labour done all is, and hast y-made reckonings, instead of rest and newe things thou go'st home to thine house anon, and there as dumb as any stone thou sittest at another book. the house at home was doubtless that in aldgate, of which the lease to chaucer, bearing date may, , has been discovered; and to this we may fancy chaucer walking morning and evening from the riverside, past the postern gate by the tower. already, however, in , the routine of his occupations appears to have been interrupted by his engagement on some secret service under sir john burley; and in the following year, and in , he was repeatedly abroad in the service of the crown. on one of his journeys in the last-named year he was attached in a subordinate capacity to the embassy sent to negotiate for the marriage with the french king charles v's daughter mary to the young king richard ii, who had succeeded to his grandfather in ,--one of those matrimonial missions which, in the days of both plantagenets and tudors, formed so large a part of the functions of european diplomacy, and which not unfrequently, as in this case at least ultimately, came to nothing. a later journey in may of the same year took chaucer once more to italy, whither he had been sent with sir edward berkeley to treat with bernardo visconti, joint lord of milan, and "scourge of lombardy," and sir john hawkwood--the former of whom finds a place in that brief mirror of magistrates, the "monk's tale." it was on this occasion that of the two persons whom, according to custom, chaucer appointed to appear for him in the courts during his absence, one was john gower, whose name as that of the second poet of his age is indissolubly linked with chaucer's own. so far, the new reign, which had opened amidst doubts and difficulties for the country, had to the faithful servant of the dynasty brought an increase of royal goodwill. in --after the suppression of the great rebellion of the villeins--king richard ii had married the princess whose name for a season linked together the history of two countries the destinies of which had before that age, as they have since, lain far asunder. yet both bohemia and england, besides the nations which received from the former the impulses communicated to it by the latter, have reason to remember queen anne the learned and the good; since to her was probably due in the first instance the intellectual intercourse between her native and her adopted country. there seems every reason to believe that it was the approach of this marriage which chaucer celebrated in one of the brightest and most jocund marriage-poems ever composed by a laureate's hand; and if this was so, he cannot but have augmented the favour with which he was regarded at court. when, therefore, by may, , his foreign journeys had come to an end, we do not wonder to find that, without being called upon to relinquish his former office, he was appointed in addition to the comptrollership of the petty customs in the port of london, of which post he was allowed to execute the duties by deputy. in november, , he received permission to absent himself from his old comptrollership for a month, and in february, , was allowed to appoint a (permanent) deputy for this office also. during the month of october, , he sat in parliament at westminster as one of the knights of the shire for kent, where we may consequently assume him to have possessed landed property. his fortunes, therefore, at this period had clearly risen to their height; and naturally enough his commentators are anxious to assign to these years the sunniest, as well as some of the most elaborate, of his literary productions. it is altogether probable that the amount of leisure now at chaucer's command enabled him to carry into execution some of the works for which he had gathered materials abroad and at home, and to prepare others. inasmuch as it contains the passage cited above, referring to chaucer's official employment, his poem called the "house of fame" must have been written between and (when chaucer quitted office), and probably is to be dated near the latter year. inasmuch as both this poem and "troilus and cressid" are mentioned in the prologue to the "legend of good women," they must have been written earlier than it; and the dedication of "troilus" to gower and strode very well agrees with the relations known to have existed about this time between chaucer and his brother-poet. very probably all these three works may have been put forth, in more or less rapid succession, during this fortunate season of chaucer's life. a fortunate season--for in it the prince who, from whatever cause, was indisputably the patron of chaucer and his wife, had, notwithstanding his unpopularity among the lower orders, and the deep suspicion fostered by hostile whisperings against him in his royal nephew's breast, still contrived to hold the first place by the throne. though serious danger had already existed of a conflict between the king and his uncle, yet john of gaunt and his duchess constance had been graciously dismissed with a royal gift of golden crowns, when in july, , he took his departure for the continent, to busy himself till his return home in november, , with the affairs of castile, and with claims arising out of his disbursements there. the reasons for chaucer's attachment to this particular patron are probably not far to seek; on the precise nature of the relation between them it is useless to speculate. before wyclif's death in , john of gaunt had openly dissociated himself from the reformer; and whatever may have been the case in his later years, it was certainly not as a follower of his old patron that at this date chaucer could have been considered a wycliffite. again, this period of chaucer's life may be called fortunate, because during it he seems to have enjoyed the only congenial friendships of which any notice remains to us, the poem of "troilus and cressid" is, as was just noted, dedicated to "the moral gower and the philosophical strode." ralph strode was a dominican of jedburgh abbey, a travelled scholar, whose journeys had carried him as far as the holy land, and who was celebrated as a poet in both the latin and the english tongue, and as a theologian and philosopher. in connexion with speculations concerning chaucer's relations to wycliffism it is worth noting that strode, who after his return to england was appointed to superintend several new monasteries, was the author of a series of controversial arguments against wyclif. the tradition, according to which he taught one of chaucer's sons, is untrustworthy. of john gower's life little more is known than of chaucer's; he appears to have been a suffolk man, holding manors in that county as well as in essex, but occasionally to have resided in kent. at the period of which we are speaking, he may be supposed, besides his french productions, to have already published his latin "vox clamantis"--a poem which, beginning with an allegorical narrative of wat tyler's rebellion, passes on to a series of reflexions on the causes of the movement, conceived in a spirit of indignation against the corruptions of the church, but not of sympathy with wycliffism. this is no doubt the poem which obtained for gower the epithet "moral" (i.e. sententious) applied to him by chaucer, and afterwards by dunbar, hawes, and shakspere. gower's "vox clamantis" and other latin poems (including one "against the astuteness of the evil one in the matter of lollardry") are forgotten; but his english "confessio amantis" has retained its right to a place of honour in the history of our literature. the most interesting part of this poem, its "prologue," has already been cited as of value for our knowledge of the political and social condition of its times. it gives expression to a conservative tone and temper of mind; and like many conservative minds, gower's had adopted, or affected to adopt, the conviction that the world was coming to an end. the cause of the anticipated catastrophe he found in the division, or absence of concord and love, manifest in the condition of things around. the intensity of strife visible among the conflicting elements of which the world, like the individual human being, is composed, too clearly announced the imminent end of all things. would that a new arion might arise to make peace where now is hate; but, alas! the prevailing confusion is such that god alone may set it right. but the poem which follows cannot be said to sustain the interest excited by this introduction. its machinery was obviously suggested by that of the "roman de la rose," though, as warton has happily phrased it, gower, after a fashion of his own, blends ovid's "art of love" with the breviary. the poet, wandering about in a forest, while suffering under the smart of cupid's dart, meets venus, the goddess of love, who urges him, as one upon the point of death, to make his full confession to her clerk or priest, the holy father genius. this confession hereupon takes place by means of question and answer; both penitent and confessor entering at great length into an examination of the various sins and weaknesses of human nature, and of their remedies, and illustrating their observations by narratives, brief or elaborate, from holy writ, sacred legend, ancient history, and romantic story. thus gower's book, as he says at its close, stands "between earnest and game," and might be fairly described as a "romaunt of the rose," without either the descriptive grace of guillaume de lorris, or the wicked wit of jean de meung, but full of learning and matter, and written by an author certainly not devoid of the art of telling stories. the mind of this author was thoroughly didactic in its bent; for the beauty of nature he has no real feeling, and though his poem, like so many of chaucer's, begins in the month of may, he is (unnecessarily) careful to tell us that his object in going forth was not to "sing with the birds." he could not, like chaucer, transfuse old things into new, but there is enough in his character as a poet to explain the friendship between the pair, of which we hear at the very time when gower was probably preparing his "confessio amantis" for publication. they are said afterwards to have become enemies; but in the absence of any real evidence to that effect we cannot believe chaucer to have been likely to quarrel with one whom he had certainly both trusted and admired. nor had literary life in england already advanced to a stage of development of which, as in the elizabethan and augustan ages, literary jealousy was an indispensable accompaniment. chaucer is supposed to have attacked gower in a passage of the "canterbury tales," where he incidentally declares his dislike (in itself extremely commendable) of a particular kind of sensational stories, instancing the subject of one of the numerous tales in the "confessio amantis." there is, however, no reason whatever for supposing chaucer to have here intended a reflection on his brother poet, more especially as the "man of law," after uttering the censure, relates, though probably not from gower, a story on a subject of a different kind likewise treated by him. it is scarcely more suspicious that when gower, in a second edition of his chief work, dedicated in to henry, earl of derby (afterwards henry iv), judiciously omitted the exordium and altered the close of the first edition, both of which were complimentary to richard ii, he left out, together with its surrounding context, a passage conveying a friendly challenge to chaucer as a "disciple and poet of the god of love." in any case there could have been no political difference between them, for chaucer was at all times in favour with the house of lancaster, towards whose future head gower so early contrived to assume a correct attitude. to him--a man of substance, with landed property in three counties--the rays of immediate court-favour were probably of less importance than to chaucer; but it is not necessity only which makes courtiers of so many of us: some are born to the vocation, and gower strikes one as naturally more prudent and cautious--in short, more of a politic personage--than chaucer. he survived him eight years--a blind invalid, in whose mind at least we may hope nothing dimmed or blurred the recollection of a friend to whom he owes much of his fame. in a still nearer relationship,--on which the works of chaucer that may certainly or probably be assigned to this period throw some light,--it seems impossible to describe him as having been fortunate. whatever may have been the date and circumstances of his marriage, it seems, at all events in its later years, not to have been a happy one. the allusions to chaucer's personal experience of married life in both "troilus and cressid" and the "house of fame" are not of a kind to be entirely explicable by that tendency to make a mock of women and of marriage, which has frequently been characteristic of satirists, and which was specially popular in an age cherishing the wit of jean de meung, and complacently corroborating its theories from naughty latin fables, french fabliaux, and italian novelle. both in "troilus and cressid" and in the "house of fame" the poet's tone, when he refers to himself, is generally dolorous; but while both poems contain unmistakeable references to the joylessness of his own married life, in the latter he speaks of himself as "suffering debonairly,"--or, as we should say, putting a good face upon--a state "desperate of all bliss." and it is a melancholy though half sarcastic glimpse into his domestic privacy which he incidentally, and it must be allowed rather unnecessarily, gives in the following passage of the same poem:-- "awake!" to me he said, in voice and tone the very same that useth one who i could name; and with that voice, sooth to say(n) my mind returned to me again; for it was goodly said to me; so was it never wont to be. in other words, the kindness of the voice reassured him that it was not the same as that which he was wont to hear close to his pillow! again, the entire tone of the prologue to the "legend of good women" is not that of a happy lover; although it would be pleasant enough, considering that the lady who imposes on the poet the penalty of celebrating good women is alcestis, the type of faithful wifehood, to interpret the poem as not only an amende honorable to the female sex in general, but a token of reconciliation to the poet's wife in particular. even in the joyous "assembly of fowls," a marriage-poem, the same discord already makes itself heard; for it cannot be without meaning that in his dream the poet is told by "african,"-- --thou of love hast lost thy taste, i guess, as sick men have of sweet and bitterness; and that he confesses for himself that, though he has read much of love, he knows not of it by experience. while, however, we reluctantly accept the conclusion that chaucer was unhappy as a husband, we must at the same time decline, because the husband was a poet, and one of the most genial of poets, to cast all the blame upon the wife, and to write her down a shrew. it is unfortunate, no doubt, but it is likewise inevitable, that at so great a distance of time the rights and wrongs of a conjugal disagreement or estrangement cannot with safety be adjusted. yet again, because we refuse to blame philippa, we are not obliged to blame chaucer. at the same time it must not be concealed, that his name occurs in the year in connexion with a legal process of which the most obvious, though not the only possible, explanation is that he had been guilty of a grave infidelity towards his wife. such discoveries as this last we might be excused for wishing unmade. considerable uncertainty remains with regard to the dates of the poems belonging to this seemingly, in all respects but one, fortunate period of chaucer's life. of one of these works, however, which has had the curious fate to be dated and re-dated by a succession of happy conjectures, the last and happiest of all may be held to have definitively fixed the occasion. this is the charming poem called the "assembly of fowls," or "parliament of birds"--a production which seems so english, so fresh from nature's own inspiration, so instinct with the gaiety of chaucer's own heart, that one is apt to overlook in it the undeniable vestiges of foreign influences, both french and italian. at its close the poet confesses that he is always reading, and therefore hopes that he may at last read something "so to fare the better." but with all this evidence of study the "assembly of fowls" is chiefly interesting as showing how chaucer had now begun to select as well as to assimilate his loans; how, while he was still moving along well-known tracks, his eyes were joyously glancing to the right and the left; and how the source of most of his imagery at all events he already found in the merry england around him, even as he had chosen for his subject one of real national interest. anne of bohemia, daughter of the great emperor charles iv, and sister of king wenceslas, had been successively betrothed to a bavarian prince and to a margrave of meissen, before--after negotiations which, according to froissart, lasted a year--her hand was given to the young king richard ii of england. this sufficiently explains the general scope of the "assembly of fowls," an allegorical poem written on or about st. valentine's day, --eleven months or nearly a year after which date the marriage took place. on the morning sacred to lovers the poet (in a dream, of course, and this time conducted by the arch-dreamer scipio in person) enters a garden containing in it the temple of the god of love, and filled with inhabitants mythological and allegorical. here he sees the noble goddess nature, seated upon a hill of flowers, and around her "all the fowls that be," assembled as by time honoured custom on st. valentine's day, "when every fowl comes there to choose her mate." their huge noise and hubbub is reduced to order by nature, who assigns to each fowl its proper place--the birds of prey highest; then those that eat according to natural inclination-- --worm or thing of which i tell no tale; then those that live by seed; and the various members of the several classes are indicated with amusing vivacity and point, from the royal eagle "that with his sharp look pierceth the sun," and "other eagles of a lower kind" downwards. we can only find room for a portion of the company:-- the sparrow, venus' son; the nightingale that clepeth forth the fresh leaves new; the swallow, murd'rer of the bees small, that honey make of flowers fresh of hue; the wedded turtle, with his hearte true; the peacock, with his angels' feathers bright, the pheasant, scorner of the cock by night. the waker goose, the cuckoo, ever unkind; the popinjay, full of delicacy; the drake, destroyer of his owne kind; the stork, avenger of adultery; the cormorant, hot and full of gluttony the crows and ravens with their voice of care; and the throstle old, and the frosty fieldfare. naturalists must be left to explain some of these epithets and designations, not all of which rest on allusions as easily understood as that recalling the goose's exploit on the capitol; but the vivacity of the whole description speaks for itself. one is reminded of aristophanes' feathered chorus; but birds are naturally the delight of poets, and were befriended by dante himself. hereupon the action of the poem opens. a female eagle is wooed by three suitors--all eagles; but among them the first, or royal eagle, discourses in the manner most likely to conciliate favour. before the answer is given, a pause furnishes an opportunity to the other fowls for delighting in the sound of their own voices, dame nature proposing that each class of birds shall, through the beak of its representative "agitator," express its opinion on the problem before the assembly. there is much humour in the readiness of the goose to rush in with a ready-made resolution, and in the smart reproof administered by the sparrow-hawk amidst the uproar of "the gentle fowls all." at last nature silences the tumult, and the lady-eagle delivers her answer, to the effect that she cannot make up her mind for a year to come; but inasmuch as nature has advised her to choose the royal eagle, his is clearly the most favourable prospect. whereupon, after certain fowls had sung a roundel, "as was always the usance," the assembly, like some human parliaments, breaks up with shouting; (than all the birdis song with sic a schout that i annone awoik quhair that i lay dunbar, "the thrissil and the rois.") and the dreamer awakes to resume his reading. very possibly the "assembly of fowls" was at no great interval of time either followed or preceded by two poems of far inferior interest--the "complaint of mars" (apparently afterwards amalgamated with that of "venus"), which is supposed to be sung by a bird on st. valentine's morning, and the fragment of "queen anelida and false arcite." there are, however, reasons which make a less early date probable in the case of the latter production, the history of the origin and purpose of which can hardly be said as yet to be removed out of the region of mere speculation. in any case, neither of these poems can be looked upon as preparations, on chaucer's part, for the longer work on which he was to expend so much labour; but in a sense this description would apply to the translation which, probably before he wrote "troilus and cressid," certainly before he wrote the prologue to the "legend of good women," he made of the famous latin work of boethius, "the just man in prison," on the "consolation of philosophy." this book was, and very justly so, one of the favourite manuals of the middle ages, and a treasure-house of religious wisdom to centuries of english writers. "boice of consolacioun" is cited in the "romaunt of the rose"; and the list of passages imitated by chaucer from the martyr of catholic orthodoxy and roman freedom of speech is exceedingly long. among them are the ever-recurring diatribe against the fickleness of fortune, and (through the medium of dante) the reflection on the distinction between gentle birth and a gentle life. chaucer's translation was not made at second-hand; if not always easy it is conscientious, and interpolated with numerous glosses and explanations thought necessary by the translator. the metre of "the former life" he at one time or another turned into verse of his own. perhaps the most interesting of the quotations made in chaucer's poems from boethus occurs in his "troilus and cressid," one of the many medieval versions of an episode engrafted by the lively fancy of an anglo-norman trouvere upon the deathless, and in its literary variations incomparably luxuriant, growth of the story of troy. on benoit de sainte-maure's poem guido de colonna founded his latin-prose romance; and this again, after being reproduced in languages and by writers almost innumerable, served boccaccio as the foundation of his poem "filostrato"--i.e. the victim of love. all these works, together with chaucer's "troilus and cressid," with lydgate's "troy-book," with henryson's "testament of cressid" (and in a sense even with shakespere's drama on the theme of chaucer's poem), may be said to belong to the second cycle of modern versions of the tale of troy divine. already their earlier predecessors had gone far astray from homer, of whom they only know by hearsay, relying for their facts on late latin epitomes, which freely mutilated and perverted the homeric narrative in favour of the trojans--the supposed ancestors of half the nations of europe. accordingly, chaucer, in a well-known passage in his "house of fame," regrets, with sublime coolness, how "one said that homer" wrote "lies," feigning in his poetries and was to greekes favourable. therefore held he it but fable. but the courtly poets of the romantic age of literature went a step further, and added a mediaeval colouring all their own. one converts the sibyl into a nun, and makes her admonish aeneas to tell his beads. another--it is chaucer's successor lydgate--introduces priam's sons exercising their bodies in tournaments and their minds in the glorious play of chess, and causes the memory of hector to be consecrated by the foundation of a chantry of priests who are to pray for the repose of his soul. a third finally condemns the erring cressid to be stricken with leprosy, and to wander about with cup and clapper, like the unhappy lepers in the great cities of the middle ages. everything, in short, is transfused by the spirit of the adapters' own times; and so far are these writers from any weakly sense of anachronism in describing troy as if it were a moated and turreted city of the later middle ages, that they are only careful now and then to protest their own truthfulness when anything in their narrative seems unlike the days in which they write. but chaucer, though his poem is, to start with, only an english reproduction of an italian version of a latin translation of a french poem, and though in most respects it shares the characteristic features of the body of poetic fiction to which it belongs, is far from being a mere translator. apart from several remarkable reminiscences introduced by chaucer from dante, as well as from the irrepressible "romaunt of the rose," he has changed his original in points which are not mere matters of detail or questions of convenience. in accordance with the essentially dramatic bent of his own genius, some of these changes have reference to the aspect of the characters and the conduct of the plot, as well as to the whole spirit of the conception of the poem. cressid (who, by the way, is a widow at the outset--whether she had children or not, chaucer nowhere found stated, and therefore leaves undecided) may at first sight strike the reader as a less consistent character in chaucer than in boccaccio. but there is true art in the way in which, in the english poem, our sympathy is first aroused for the heroine, whom, in the end, we cannot but condemn. in boccaccio, cressid is fair and false--one of those fickle creatures with whom italian literature, and boccaccio in particular, so largely deal, and whose presentment merely repeats to us the old cynical half-truth as to woman's weakness. the english poet, though he does not pretend that his heroine was "religious" (i.e. a nun to whom earthly love is a sin), endears her to us from the first; so much that "o the pity of it" seems the hardest verdict we can ultimately pass upon her conduct. how, then, is the catastrophe of the action, the falling away of cressid from her truth to troilus, poetically explained? by an appeal--pedantically put, perhaps, and as it were dragged in violently by means of a truncated quotation from boethius--to the fundamental difficulty concerning the relations between poor human life and the government of the world. this, it must be conceded, is a considerably deeper problem than the nature of woman. troilus and cressid, the hero sinned against and the sinning heroine, are the victims of fate. who shall cast a stone against those who are, but like the rest of us, predestined to their deeds and to their doom; since the co-existence of free-will with predestination does not admit of proof? this solution of the conflict may be morally as well as theologically unsound; it certainly is aesthetically faulty; but it is the reverse of frivolous or commonplace. or let us turn from cressid, "matchless in beauty," and warm with sweet life, but not ignoble even in the season of her weakness, to another personage of the poem. in itself the character of pandarus is one of the most revolting which imagination can devise; so much so that the name has become proverbial for the most despicable of human types. with boccaccio pandarus is cressid's cousin and troilus' youthful friend, and there is no intention of making him more offensive than are half the confidants of amorous heroes. but chaucer sees his dramatic opportunity; and without painting black in black and creating a monster of vice, he invents a good-natured and loquacious, elderly go-between, full of proverbial philosophy and invaluable experience--a genuine light comedy character for all times. how admirably this pandarus practises as well as preaches his art; using the hospitable deiphobus and the queenly helen as unconscious instruments in his intrigue for bringing the lovers together:-- she came to dinner in her plain intent; but god and pandar wist what all this meant. lastly, considering the extreme length of chaucer's poem, and the very simple plot of the story which it tells, one cannot fail to admire the skill with which the conduct of its action is managed. in boccaccio the earlier part of the story is treated with brevity, while the conclusion, after the catastrophe has occurred and the main interest has passed, is long drawn out. chaucer dwells at great length upon the earlier and pleasing portion of the tale, more especially on the falling in love of cressid, which is worked out with admirable naturalness. but he comparatively hastens over its pitiable end--the fifth and last book of his poem corresponding to not less than four cantos of the "filostrato." in chaucer's hands, therefore, the story is a real love-story, and the more that we are led to rejoice with the lovers in their bliss, the more our compassion is excited by the lamentable end of so much happiness; and we feel at one with the poet, who, after lingering over the happiness of which he has in the end to narrate the fall, as it were unwillingly proceeds to accomplish his task, and bids his readers be wroth with the destiny of his heroine rather than with himself. his own heart, he says, bleeds and his pen quakes to write what must be written of the falsehood of cressid, which was her doom. chaucer's nature, however tried, was unmistakeably one gifted with the blessed power of easy self-recovery. though it was in a melancholy vein that he had begun to write "troilus and cressid," he had found opportunities enough in the course of the poem for giving expression to the fresh vivacity and playful humour which are justly reckoned among his chief characteristics. and thus, towards its close, we are not surprised to find him apparently looking forward to a sustained effort of a kind more congenial to himself. he sends forth his "little book, his little tragedy," with the prayer that, before he dies, god his maker may send him might to "make some comedy." if the poem called the "house of fame" followed upon "troilus and cressid" (the order of succession may, however, have been the reverse), then, although the poet's own mood had little altered, yet he had resolved upon essaying a direction which he rightly felt to be suitable to his genius. the "house of fame" has not been distinctly traced to any one foreign source; but the influence of both petrarch and dante, as well as that of classical authors, are clearly to be traced in the poem. and yet this work, chaucer's most ambitious attempt in poetical allegory, may be described not only as in the main due to an original conception, but as representing the results of the writer's personal experience. all things considered, it is the production of a man of wonderful reading, and shows that chaucer's was a mind interested in the widest variety of subjects, which drew no invidious distinctions, such as we moderns are prone to insist upon, between arts and science, but (notwithstanding an occasional deprecatory modesty) eagerly sought to familiarise itself with the achievements of both. in a passage concerning the men of letters who had found a place in the "house of fame," he displays not only an acquaintance with the names of several ancient classics, but also a keen appreciation, now and then perhaps due to instinct, of their several characteristics. elsewhere he shows his interest in scientific inquiry by references to such matters as the theory of sound and the arabic system of numeration; while the mentor of the poem, the eagle, openly boasts his powers of clear scientific demonstration, in averring that he can speak "lewdly" (i.e. popularly) "to a lewd man." the poem opens with a very fresh and lively discussion of the question of dreams in general--a semi-scientific subject which much occupied chaucer, and upon which even pandarus and the wedded couple of the "nun's priest's tale" expend their philosophy. thus, besides giving evidence of considerable information and study, the "house of fame" shows chaucer to have been gifted with much natural humour. among its happy touches are the various rewards bestowed by fame upon the claimants for her favour, including the ready grant of evil fame to those who desire it (a bad name, to speak colloquially, is to be had for the asking; and the wonderful paucity of those who wish their good works to remain in obscurity and to be their own reward, but then chaucer was writing in the middle ages. and as pointing in a direction which the author of the poem was subsequently to follow out, we may also specially notice the company thronging the house of rumour: shipmen and pilgrims, the two most numerous kinds of travellers in chaucer's age, fresh from seaport and sepulchre, with scrips brimful of unauthenticated intelligence. in short, this poem offers in its details much that is characteristic of its author's genius; while, as a whole, its abrupt termination notwithstanding, it leaves the impression of completeness. the allegory, simple and clear in construction, fulfils the purpose for which it was devised; the conceptions upon which it is based are neither idle, like many of those in chaucer's previous allegories, nor are they so artificial and far-fetched as to fatigue instead of stimulating the mind. pope, who reproduced parts of the "house of fame" in a loose paraphrase, in attempting to improve the construction of chaucer's work, only mutilated it. as it stands, it is clear and digestible; and how many allegories, one may take leave to ask, in our own allegory-loving literature or in any other, merit the same commendation? for the rest, pope's own immortal "dunciad," though doubtless more immediately suggested by a personal satire of dryden's, is in one sense a kind of travesty of the "house of fame,"--a "house of infamy." in the theme of this poem there was undoubtedly something that could hardly fail to humour the half-melancholy mood in which it was manifestly written. are not, the poet could not but ask himself, all things vanity; "as men say, what may ever last?" yet the subject brought its consolation likewise. patient labour, such as this poem attests, is the surest road to that enduring fame, which is "conserved with the shade;" and awaking from his vision, chaucer takes leave of the reader with a resolution already habitual to him--to read more and more, instead of resting satisfied with the knowledge he has already acquired. and in the last of the longer poems which seem assignable to this period of his life, he proves that one latin poet at least--venus' clerk, whom in the "house of fame" he behold standing on a pillar of her own cyprian metal--had been read as well as celebrated by him of this poem, the fragmentary "legend of good women," the "prologue" possesses a peculiar biographical as well as literary interest. in his personal feelings on the subject of love and marriage, chaucer had, when he wrote this "prologue," evidently almost passed even beyond the sarcastic stage. and as a poet he was now clearly conscious of being no longer a beginner, no longer a learner only, but one whom his age knew, and in whom it took a critical interest. the list including most of his undoubted works, which he here recites, shows of itself that those already spoken of in the foregoing pages were by this time known to the world, together with two of the "canterbury tales," which had either been put forth independently, or (as seems much less probable) had formed the first instalment of his great work. a further proof of the relatively late date of this "prologue" occurs in the contingent offer which it makes of the poem to "the queen," who can be no other than richard ii's young consort anne. at the very outset we find chaucer as it were reviewing his own literary position--and doing so in the spirit of an author who knows very well what is said against him, who knows very well what there is in what is said against him, and who yet is full of that true self-consciousness which holds to its course--not recklessly and ruthlessly, not with a contempt for the feelings and judgments of his fellow-creatures, but with a serene trust in the justification ensured to every honest endeavour. the principal theme of his poems had hitherto been the passion of love, and woman who is the object of the love of man. had he not, the superfine critics of his day may have asked--steeped as they were in the artificiality and florid extravagance of chivalry in the days of its decline, and habituated to mistranslating earthly passion into the phraseology of religious devotion--had he not debased the passion of love, and defamed its object? had he not begun by translating the wicked satire of jean de meung, "a heresy against the law" of love, and had he not, by cynically painting in his cressid a picture of woman's perfidy, encouraged men to be less faithful to women that be as true as ever was any steel? in chaucer's way of meeting this charge, which he emphasises by putting it in the mouth of the god of love himself, it is, to be sure, difficult to recognise any very deeply penitent spirit. he mildly wards off the reproach, sheltering himself behind his defender, the "lady in green," who afterwards proves to be herself that type of womanly and wifely fidelity unto death, the true and brave alcestis. and even in the body of the poem one is struck by a certain perfunctoriness, not to say flippancy, in the way in which its moral is reproduced. the wrathful invective against the various classical followers of lamech, the maker of tents, wears no aspect of deep moral indignation; and it is not precisely the voice of a repentant sinner which concludes the pathetic story of the betrayal of phillis with the adjuration to ladies in general:-- beware ye women of your subtle foe, since yet this day men may example see and as in love trust ye no man but me. (lamech, chaucer tells us in "queen annelida and the false arcite," was the first father that began the love of two, and was in bigamy. this poem seems designed to illustrate much the same moral as that enforced by the "legend of good women"--a moral which, by-the-bye, is already foreshadowed towards the close of "troilus and cressid," where chaucer speaks of women that betrayed be through false folk, (god give them sorrow, amen!) that with their greate wit and subtlety betray you; and 'tis this that moveth me to speak; and, in effect, you all i pray: beware of men, and hearken what i say.) at the same time the poet lends an attentive ear, as genius can always afford to do, to a criticism of his shortcomings, and readily accepts the sentence pronounced by alcestis that he shall write a legend of good women, both maidens and also wives, that were true in loving all their lives. and thus, with the courage of a good or at all events easy conscience, he sets about his task which unfortunately--it is conjectured by reason of domestic calamities, probably including the death of his wife--remained, or at least has come down to us unfinished. we have only nine of the nineteen stories which he appears to have intended to present (though indeed a manuscript of henry iv's reign quotes chaucer's book of " good women"). it is by no means necessary to suppose that all these nine stories were written continuously; maybe, too, chaucer, with all his virtuous intentions, grew tired of his rather monotonous scheme, at a time when he was beginning to busy himself with stories meant to be fitted into the more liberal framework of the "canterbury tales." all these illustrations of female constancy are of classical origin, as chaucer is glad to make known and most of them are taken from ovid. but though the thread of the english poet's narratives is supplied by such established favourites as the stories of cleopatra the martyr queen of egypt, of thisbe of babylon the martyr, and of dido to whom "aeneas was forsworn," yet he by no means slavishly adheres to his authorities, but alters or omits in accordance with the design of his book. thus, for instance, we read of medea's desertion by jason, but hear nothing of her as the murderess of her children; while, on the other hand, the tragedy of dido is enhanced by pathetic additions not to be found in virgil. modern taste may dislike the way in which this poem mixes up the terms and ideas of christian martyrology with classical myths, and as "the legend of the saints of cupid" assumes the character of a kind of calendar of women canonised by reason of their faithfulness to earthly love. but obviously this is a method of treatment belonging to an age, not to a single poem or poet. chaucer's artistic judgment in the selection and arrangement of his themes, the wonderful vivacity and true pathos with which he turns upon tarquin or jason as if they had personally offended him, and his genuine flow of feeling not only for but with his unhappy heroines, add a new charm to the old familiar faces. proof is thus furnished, if any proof were needed, that no story interesting in itself is too old to admit of being told again by a poet; in chaucer's version ovid loses something in polish, but nothing in pathos; and the breezy freshness of nature seems to be blowing through tales which became the delight of a nation's, as they have been that of many a man's, youth. a single passage must suffice to illustrate the style of the "legend of good women"; and it shall be the lament of ariadne, the concluding passage of the story which is the typical tale of desertion, though not, as it remains in chaucer, of desertion unconsoled. it will be seen how far the english poet's vivacity is from being extinguished by the pathos of the situation described by him. right in the dawening awaketh she, and gropeth in the bed, and found right naught. "alas," quoth she, "that ever i was wrought! i am betrayed!" and her hair she rent, and to the strande barefoot fast she went, and criede: "theseus, mine hearte sweet! where be ye, that i may not with you meet? and mighte thus by beastes been y-slain!" the hollow rockes answered her again. no man she sawe; and yet shone the moon, and high upon a rock she wente soon, and saw his barge sailing in the sea. cold waxed her heart, and right thus said she: "meeker than ye i find the beastes wild!" (hath he not sin that he her thus beguiled?) she cried, "o turn again for ruth and sin, thy barge hath not all thy meinie in." her kerchief on a pole sticked she, askance, that he should it well y-see, and should remember that she was behind, and turn again, and on the strand her find. but all for naught; his way he is y-gone, and down she fell aswoone on a stone; and up she rose, and kissed, in all her care, the steppes of his feet remaining there; and then unto her bed she speaketh so: "thou bed," quoth she, "that hast received two, thou shalt answer for two, and not for one; where is the greater part away y-gone? alas, what shall i wretched wight become? for though so be no help shall hither come, home to my country dare i not for dread, i can myselfe in this case not rede." why should i tell more of her complaining? it is so long it were a heavy thing. in her epistle naso telleth all. but shortly to the ende tell i shall. the goddes have her holpen for pity, and in the sign of taurus men may see the stones of her crown all shining clear. i will no further speak of this matter. but thus these false lovers can beguile their true love; the devil quite him his while! manifestly, then, in this period of his life--if a chronology which is in a great measure cojectural may be accepted--chancer had been a busy worker, and his pen had covered many a page with the results of his rapid productivity. perhaps, his "words unto his own scrivener," which we may fairly date about this time, were rather too hard on "adam." authors are often hard on persons who have to read their handiwork professionally; but in the interest of posterity poets may be permitted an execration or two against whosoever changes their words as well as against whosoever moves their bones:-- adam scrivener, if ever it thee befall "boece" or "troilus" to write anew, under thy long locks may'st thou have the scall, if thou my writing copy not more true! so oft a day i must thy work renew, it to correct and eke to rub and scrape; and all is through thy negligence and rape. how far the manuscript of the "canterbury tales" had already progressed is uncertain; the "prologue" to the "legend of good women" mentions the "love of palamon and arcite"--an earlier version of the "knight's tale," if not identical with it--and a "life of saint cecilia" which is preserved, apparently without alteration, in the "second nun's tale." possibly other stories had been already added to these, and the "prologue" written--but this is more than can be asserted with safety. who shall say whether, if the stream of prosperity had continued to flow, on which the bark of chaucer's fortunes had for some years been borne along, he might not have found leisure and impulse sufficient for completing his masterpiece, or at all events for advancing it near to completion? that his powers declined with his years is a conjecture which it would be difficult to support by satisfactory evidence; though it seems natural enough to assume that he wrote the best of his "canterbury tales" in his best days. troubled times we know to have been in store for him. the reverse in his fortunes may perhaps fail to call forth in us the sympathy which we feel for milton in his old age doing battle against a philistine reaction, or for spenser overwhelmed with calamities at the end of a life full of bitter disappointment. but at least we may look upon it with the respectful pity which we entertain for ben jonson groaning in the midst of his literary honours under that dura rerum necessitas, which is rarely more a matter of indifference to poets than it is to other men. in , as already noted, chaucer, while continuing to hold both his offices at the customs, had taken his seat in parliament as one of the knights of the shire of kent. he had attained to this honour during the absence in spain of his patron the duke of lancaster, though probably he had been elected in the interest of that prince. but john of gaunt's influence was inevitably reduced to nothing during his absence, and no doubt king richard now hoped to be a free agent. but he very speedily found that the hand of his younger uncle, thomas duke of gloucester, was heavier upon him than that of the elder. the parliament of which chaucer was a member was the assembly which boldly confronted the autocratical tendencies of richard ii, and after overthrowing the chancellor, michael de la pole, earl of suffolk, forced upon the king a council controlling the administration of affairs. concerning the acts of this council, of which gloucester was the leading member, little or nothing is known, except that in financial matters it attempted, after the manner of new brooms, to sweep clean. soon the attention of gloucester and his following was occupied by subjects more absorbing than a branch of reform fated to be treated fitfully. in this instance the new administration had as usual demanded its victims--and among their number was chaucer. for it can hardly be a mere coincidence that by the beginning of december in this year, , chaucer had lost one, and by the middle of the same month the other, of his comptrollerships. at the same time, it would be presumptuously unfair to conclude that misconduct of any kind on his part had been the reason of his removal. the explanation usually given is that he fell as an adherent of john of gaunt; perhaps a safer way of putting the matter would be to say that john of gaunt was no longer in england to protect him. inasmuch as even reforming governments are occasionally as anxious about men as they are about measures, chaucer's posts may have been wanted for nominees of the duke of gloucester and his council--such as it is probably no injustice to masters adam yerdely and henry gisors (who respectively succeeded chaucer in his two offices) to suppose them to have been. moreover, it is just possible that chaucer was the reverse of a persona grata to gloucester's faction on account of the comptroller's previous official connexion with sir nicholas brembre, who, besides being hated in the city, had been accused of seeking to compass the deaths of the duke and of some of his adherents. in any case, it is noticeable that four months before the return to england of the duke of lancaster, i.e. in july, , chaucer was appointed clerk of the king's works at westminster, the tower, and a large number of other royal manors or tenements, including (from at all events) st. george's chapel, windsor. in this office he was not ill-paid, receiving two shillings a day in money, and very possibly perquisites in addition, besides being allowed to appoint a deputy. inasmuch as in the summer of the year king richard had assumed the reins of government in person, while the ascendancy of gloucester was drawing to a close, we may conclude the king to have been personally desirous to provide for a faithful and attached servant of his house, for whom he had had reason to feel a personal liking. it would be specially pleasing, were we able to connect with chaucer's restoration to official employment the high-minded queen anne, whose impending betrothal he had probably celebrated in one poem, and whose patronage he had claimed for another. the clerkship of the king's works to which chaucer was appointed, seems to have been but a temporary office; or at all events he only held it for rather less than two years, during part of which he performed its duties by deputy. already, however, before his appointment to this post, he had certainly become involved in difficulties. for in may, , we find his pensions, at his own request, assigned to another person (john scalby)--a statement implying that he had raised money on them which he could only pay by making over the pensions themselves. very possibly, too, he had, before his dismissal from his comptrollerships, been subjected to an enquiry which, if it did not touch his honour, at all events gave rise to very natural apprehensions on the part of himself and his friends. there is accordingly much probability in the conjecture which ascribes to this season of peril and pressure the composition of the following justly famous stanzas entitled "good counsel of chaucer":- flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness; suffice thee thy good, though it be small; for hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness: press hath envy, and wealth is blinded all. savour no more than thee behove shall; do well thyself that other folk canst rede; and truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread. pain thee not each crooked to redress in trust of her (fortune) that turneth as a ball. greate rest stands in little business. beware also to spurn against a nail. strive not as doth a pitcher with a wall. deeme thyself that deemest others' deed; and truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread. that thee is sent receive in buxomness; the wrestling of this world asketh a fall. here is no home, here is but wilderness. forth, pilgram! forth, beast, out of thy stall! look up on high, and thank god of all. waive thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead, and truth shall thee deliver, it is no dread. misfortunes, it is said, never come alone; and whatever view may be taken as to the nature of the relations between chaucer and his wife, her death cannot have left him untouched. from the absence of any record as to the payment of her pension after june, , this event is presumed to have taken place in the latter half of that year. more than this cannot safely be conjectured; but it remains possible that the "legend of good women" and its "prologue" formed a peace-offering to one whom chaucer may have loved again after he had lost her, though without thinking of her as of his "late departed saint." philippa chaucer had left behind her a son of the name of lewis; and it is pleasing to find the widower in the year (the year in which he lost his clerkship of the works) attending to the boy's education, and supplying him with the intellectual "bread and milk" suitable for his tender age in the shape of a popular treatise on a subject which has at all times excited the intelligent curiosity of the young. the treatise "on the astrolabe," after describing the instrument itself, and showing how to work it, proceeded, or was intended to proceed, to fulfil the purposes of a general astronomical manual; but, like other and more important works of its author, it has come down to us in an uncompleted, or at all events incomplete, condition. what there is of it was, as a matter of course, not original--popular scientific books rarely are. the little treatise, however, possesses a double interest for the student of chaucer. in the first place it shows explicitly, what several passages imply, that while he was to a certain extent fond of astronomical study (as to his capacity for which he clearly does injustice to himself in the "house of fame"), his good sense and his piety alike revolted against extravagant astrological speculations. he certainly does not wish to go as far as the honest carpenter in the "miller's tale," who glories in his incredulity of aught besides his credo, and who yet is afterwards befooled by the very impostor of whose astrological pursuits he had reprehended the impiety. "men," he says, "should know nothing of that which is private to god. yea, blessed be alway a simple man who knows nothing but only his belief." in his little work "on the astrolobe," chaucer speaks with calm reasonableness of superstitions in which his spirit has no faith, and pleads guilty to ignorance of the useless knowledge with which they are surrounded. but the other, and perhaps the chief value, to us of this treatise lies in the fact that of chaucer in an intimate personal relation it contains the only picture in which it is impossible to suspect any false or exaggerated colouring. for here we have him writing to his "little lewis" with fatherly satisfaction in the ability displayed by the boy "to learn sciences touching numbers and proportions," and telling how, after making a present to the child of "a sufficient astrolabe as for our own horizon, composed after the latitude of oxford," he has further resolved to explain to him a certain number of conclusions connected with the purposes of the instrument. this he has made up his mind to do in a forcible as well as simple way; for he has shrewdly divined a secret, now and then overlooked by those who condense sciences for babes, that children need to be taught a few things not only clearly but fully--repetition being in more senses than one "the mother of studies":-- "now will i pray meekly every discreet person that readeth or heareth this little treatise, to hold my rude inditing excused, and my superfluity of words, for two causes. the first cause is: that curious inditing and hard sentences are full heavy at once for such a child to learn. and the second cause is this: that truly it seems better to me to write unto a child twice a good sentence, than to forget it once." unluckily we know nothing further of lewis--not even whether, as has been surmised, he died before he had been able to turn to lucrative account his calculating powers, after the fashion of his apocryphal brother thomas or otherwise. though by the latter part of the year chaucer had lost his clerkship of the works, certain payments (possibly of arrears) seem afterwards to have been made to him in connexion with the office. a very disagreeable incident of his tenure of it had been a double robbery from his person of official money, to the very serious extent of twenty pounds. the perpetrators of the crime were a notorious gang of highwaymen, by whom chaucer was, in september, , apparently on the same day, beset both at westminster, and near to "the foul oak" at hatcham in surrey. a few months afterwards he was discharged by writ from repayment of the loss to the crown. his experiences during the three years following are unknown; but in (when things were fairly quiet in england) he was granted an annual pension of twenty pounds by the king. this pension, of which several subsequent notices occur, seems at times to have been paid tardily or in small instalments, and also to have been frequently anticipated by chaucer in the shape of loans of small sums. further evidence of his straits is to be found in his having, in the year , obtained letters of protection against arrest, making him safe for two years. the grant of a tun of wine in october of the same year is the last favour known to have been extended to chaucer by king richard ii. probably no english sovereign has been more diversely estimated, both by his contemporaries and by posterity, than this ill-fated prince, in the records of whose career many passages betokening high spirit strangely contrast with the impotence of its close. it will at least be remembered in his favour that he was a patron of the arts; and that after froissart had been present at his christening, he received, when on the threshold of manhood, the homage of gower, and on the eve of his downfall showed most seasonable kindness to a poet far greater than either of these. it seems scarcely justifiable to assign to any particular point of time the "ballade sent to king richard" by chaucer; but its manifest intention was to apprise the king of the poet's sympathy with his struggle against the opponents of the royal policy, which was a thoroughly autocratical one. considering the nature of the relations between the pair, nothing could be more unlikely than that chaucer should have taken upon himself to exhort his sovereign and patron to steadfastness of political conduct. and in truth, though the loyal tone of this address is (as already observed) unmistakeable enough, there is little difficulty in accounting for the mixture of commonplace reflexions and of admonitions to the king, to persist in a spirited domestic policy. he is to "dread god, do law, love truth and worthiness," and wed his people--not himself--"again to steadfastness." however, even a quasi-political poem of this description, whatever element of implied flattery it may contain, offers pleasanter reading than those least attractive of all occasional poems, of which the burden is a cry for money. the "envoy to scogan" has been diversely dated, and diversely interpreted. the reference in these lines to a deluge of pestilence, clearly means, not a pestilence produced by heavy rains, but heavy rains which might be expected to produce a pestilence. the primary purpose of the epistle admits of no doubt, though it is only revealed in the postscript. after bantering his friend on account of his faint-heartedness in love:-- "because thy lady saw not thy distress, therefore thou gavest her up at michaelmas--" chaucer ends by entreating him to further his claims upon the royal munificence. of this friend, henry scogan, a tradition repeated by ben jonson averred that he was a fine gentleman and master of arts of henry iv's time, who was regarded and rewarded for his court "disguisings" and "writings in ballad-royal." he is therefore appropriately apostrophised by chaucer as kneeling --at the streames head of grace, of all honour and worthiness, and reminded that his friend is at the other end of the current. the weariness of tone, natural under the circumstances, obscures whatever humour the poem possesses. very possibly the lines to scogan were written not before, but immediately after, the accession of henry iv. in that case they belong to about the same date as the wellknown and very plainspoken "complaint of chaucer to his purse," addressed by him to the new sovereign without loss of time, if not indeed, as it would be hardly uncharitable to suppose, prepared beforehand. even in this "complaint" (the term was a technical one for an elegiac piece, and was so used by spenser) there is a certain frank geniality of tone, the natural accompaniment of an easy conscience, which goes some way to redeem the nature of the subject. still, the theme remains one which only an exceptionally skilful treatment can make sufficiently pathetic or perfectly comic. the lines had the desired effect; for within four days after his accession--i.e. on october rd, --the "conqueror of brut's albion," otherwise king henry iv, doubled chaucer's pension of twenty marks, so that, continuing as he did to enjoy the annuity of twenty pounds granted him by king richard, he was now once more in comfortable circumstances. the best proof of these lies in the fact that very speedily--on christmas eve, --chaucer, probably in a rather sanguine mood, covenanted for the lease for fifty-three years of a house in the garden of the chapel of st. mary at westminster. and here, in comfort and in peace, as there seems every reason to believe, he died before another year, and with it the century, had quite run out--on october th, . our fancy may readily picture to itself the last days of geoffrey chaucer, and the ray of autumn sunshine which gilded his reverend head before it was bowed in death. his old patron's more fortunate son, whose earlier chivalrous days we are apt to overlook in thinking of him as a politic king and the sagacious founder of a dynasty, cannot have been indifferent to the welfare of a subject for whose needs he had provided with so prompt a liberality. in the vicinity of a throne the smiles of royalty are wont to be contagious--and probably many a courtier thought well to seek the company of one who, so far as we know, had never forfeited the goodwill of any patron or the attachment of any friend. we may, too, imagine him visited by associates who loved and honoured the poet as well as the man--by gower, blind or nearly so, if tradition speak the truth, and who, having "long had sickness upon hand," seems unlike chaucer to have been ministered to in his old age by a housewife whom he had taken to himself in contradiction of principles preached by both the poets; and by "bukton," converted, perchance, by means of chaucer's gift to him of the "wife of bath's tale," to a resolution of perpetual bachelorhood, but otherwise, as mr. carlyle would say, "dim to us." besides these, if he was still among the living, the philosophical strode in his dominican habit, on a visit to london from one of his monasteries; or--more probably--the youthful lydgate, not yet a benedictine monk, but pausing, on his return from his travels in divers lands, to sit awhile, as it were, at the feet of the master in whose poetic example he took pride; the courtly scogan; and occleve, already learned, who was to cherish the memory of chaucer's outward features as well as of his fruitful intellect:--all these may in his closing days have gathered around their friend; and perhaps one or the other may have been present to close the watchful eyes for ever. but there was yet another company with which, in these last years, and perhaps in these last days of his life, chaucer had intercourse, of which he can rarely have lost sight, and which even in solitude he must have had constantly with him. this company has since been well known to generations and centuries of englishmen. its members head that goodly procession of figures which have been familiar to our fathers as livelong friends, which are the same to us, and will be to our children after us--the procession of the nation's favourites among the characters created by our great dramatists and novelists, the eternal types of human nature which nothing can efface from our imagination. or is there less reality about the "knight" in his short cassock and old-fashioned armour and the "wife of bath" in hat and wimple, than--for instance--about uncle toby and the widow wadman? can we not hear "madame eglantine" lisping her "stratford-atte-bowe" french as if she were a personage in a comedy by congreve or sheridan? is not the "summoner" with his "fire-red cherubim's face" a worthy companion for lieutenant bardolph himself? and have not the humble "parson" and his brother the "ploughman" that irresistible pathos which dickens could find in the simple and the poor? all these figures, with those of their fellow-pilgrims, are to us living men and women; and in their midst the poet who created them lives, as he has painted himself among the company, not less faithfully than occleve depicted him from memory after death. how long chaucer had been engaged upon the "canterbury tales" it is impossible to decide. no process is more hazardous than that of distributing a poet's works among the several periods of his life according to divisions of species--placing his tragedies or serious stories in one season, his comedies or lighter tales in another, and so forth. chaucer no more admits of such treatment than shakspere, nor because there happens to be in his case little actual evidence by which to control or contradict it, are we justified in subjecting him to it. all we know is that he left his great work a fragment, and that we have no mention in any of his other poems of more than three of the "tales"--two, as already noticed, being mentioned in the prologue to the legend of good women, written at a time when they had perhaps not yet assumed the form in which they are preserved, while to the third (the "wife of bath") reference is made in the "envoi to bukton," the date of which is quite uncertain. at the same time, the labour which was expended upon the "canterbury tales" by their author manifestly obliges us to conclude that their composition occupied several years, with inevitable interruptions; while the gaiety and brightness of many of the stories, and the exuberant humour and exquisite pathos of others, as well as the masterly effectiveness of the "prologue," make it almost certain that these parts of the work were written when chaucer was not only capable of doing his best, but also in a situation which admitted of his doing it. the supposition is therefore a very probable one, that the main period of their composition may have extended over the last eleven or twelve years of his life, and have begun about the time when he was again placed above want by his appointment to the clerkship of the royal works. again, it is virtually certain that the poem of the "canterbury tales" was left in an unfinished and partially unconnected condition, and it is altogether uncertain whether chaucer had finally determined upon maintaining or modifying the scheme originally indicated by him in the "prologue." there can accordingly be no necessity for working out a scheme into which everything that he has left belonging to the "canterbury tales" may most easily and appropriately fit. yet the labour is by no means lost of such inquiries as those which have with singular zeal been prosecuted concerning the several problems that have to be solved before such a scheme can be completed. without a review of the evidence it would however be preposterous to pronounce on the proper answer to be given to the questions: what were the number of tales and that of tellers ultimately designed by chaucer; what was the order in which he intended the "tales" actually written by him to stand; and what was the plan of the journey of his pilgrims, as to the localities of its stages and as to the time occupied by it--whether one day for the fifty-six miles from london to canterbury (which is by no means impossible), or two days (which seems more likely), or four. the route of the pilgrimage must have been one in parts of which it is pleasant even now to dally, when the sweet spring flowers are in bloom which mr. boughton has painted for lovers of the poetry of english landscape. there are one or two other points which should not be overlooked in considering the "canterbury tales" as a whole. it has sometimes been assumed as a matter of course that the plan of the work was borrowed from boccaccio. if this means that chaucer owed to the "decamerone" the idea of including a number of stories in the framework of a single narrative, it implies too much. for this notion, a familiar one in the east, had long been known to western europe by the numerous versions of the terribly ingenious story of the "seven wise masters" (in the progress of which the unexpected never happens), as well as by similar collections of the same kind. and the special connexion of this device with a company of pilgrims might, as has been well remarked, have been suggested to chaucer by an english book certainly within his ken, the "vision concerning piers plowman," where in the "fair field full of folk" are assembled among others "pilgrims and palmers who went forth on their way" to st. james of compostella and to saints at rome "with many wise tales"--("and had leave to lie all their life after"). but even had chaucer owed the idea of his plan to boccaccio, he would not thereby have incurred a heavy debt to the italian novelist. there is nothing really dramatic in the schemes of the "decamerone" or of the numerous imitations which it called forth, from the french "heptameron" and the neapolitan "pentamerone" down to the german "phantasus." it is unnecessary to come nearer to our own times; for the author of the "earthly paradise" follows chaucer in endeavouring at least to give a framework of real action to his collection of poetic tales. there is no organic connexion between the powerful narrative of the plague opening boccaccio's book, and the stories chiefly of love and its adventures which follow; all that boccaccio did was to preface an interesting series of tales by a more interesting chapter of history, and then to bind the tales themselves together lightly and naturally in days, like rows of pearls in a collar. but while in the "decamerone" the framework in its relation to the stories is of little or no significance, in the "canterbury tales" it forms one of the most valuable organic elements in the whole work. one test of the distinction is this: what reader of the "decamerone" connects any of the novels composing it with the personality of the particular narrator, or even cares to remember the grouping of the stories as illustrations of fortunate or unfortunate, adventurous or illicit, passion? the charm of boccaccio's book, apart from the independent merits of the introduction, lies in the admirable skill and unflagging vivacity with which the "novels" themselves are told. the scheme of the "canterbury tales," on the other hand, possesses some genuinely dramatic elements. if the entire form, at all events in its extant condition, can scarcely be said to have a plot, it at least has an exposition unsurpassed by that of any comedy, ancient or modern; it has the possibility of a growth of action and interest; and (which is of far more importance, it has a variety of characters which mutually both relieve and supplement one another. with how sure an instinct, by the way, chaucer has anticipated that unwritten law of the modern drama according to which low comedy characters always appear in couples! thus the "miller" and the "reeve" are a noble pair running in parallel lines, though in contrary directions; so are the "cook" and the "manciple," and again and more especially the "friar" and the "summoner." thus at least the germ of a comedy exists in the plan of the "canterbury tales." no comedy could be formed out of the mere circumstance of a company of ladies and gentlemen sitting down in a country-house to tell an unlimited number of stories on a succession of topics; but a comedy could be written with the purpose of showing how a wide variety of national types will present themselves, when brought into mutual contact by an occasion peculiarly fitted to call forth their individual rather than their common characteristics. for not only are we at the opening of the "canterbury tales" placed in the very heart and centre of english life; but the poet contrives to find for what may be called his action a background, which seems of itself to suggest the most serious emotions and the most humorous associations. and this without anything grotesque in the collocation, such as is involved in the notion of men telling anecdotes at a funeral, or forgetting a pestilence over love-stories. chaucer's dramatis personae are a company of pilgrims, whom at first we find assembled in a hostelry in southwark, and whom we afterwards accompany on their journey to canterbury. the hostelry is that "tabard" inn which, though it changed its name, and no doubt much of its actual structure, long remained both in its general appearance, and perhaps in part of its actual self, a genuine relic of mediaeval london. there, till within a very few years from the present date, might still be had a draught of that london ale of which chaucer's "cook" was so thorough a connoisseur; and there within the big courtyard, surrounded by a gallery very probably a copy of its predecessor, was ample room for --well nine and twenty in a company of sundry folk, with their horses and travelling gear sufficient for a ride to canterbury. the goal of this ride has its religious, its national, one might even say its political aspect; but the journey itself has an importance of its own. a journey is generally one of the best of opportunities for bringing out the distinctive points in the characters of travellers; and we are accustomed to say that no two men can long travel in one another's company unless their friendship is equal to the severest of tests. at home men live mostly among colleagues and comrades; on a journey they are placed in continual contrast with men of different pursuits and different habits of life. the shipman away from his ship, the monk away from his cloister, the scholar away from his books, become interesting instead of remaining commonplace, because the contrasts become marked which exist between them. moreover, men undertake journeys for divers purposes, and a pilgrimage in chaucer's day united a motley group of chance companions in search of different ends at the same goal. one goes to pray, the other seeks profit, the third distraction, the fourth pleasure. to some the road is everything; to others, its terminus. all this vanity lay in the mere choice of chaucer's framework; there was accordingly something of genius in the thought itself; and even an inferior workmanship could hardly have left a description of a canterbury pilgrimage unproductive of a wide variety of dramatic effects. but chaucer's workmanship was as admirable as his selection of his framework was felicitous. he has executed only part of his scheme, according to which each pilgrim was to tell two tales both going and coming, and the best narrator, the laureate of this merry company, was to be rewarded by a supper at the common expense on their return to their starting-place. thus the design was, not merely to string together a number of poetical tales by an easy thread, but to give a real unity and completeness to the whole poem. all the tales told by all the pilgrims were to be connected together by links; the reader was to take an interest in the movement and progress of the journey to and fro; and the poem was to have a middle as well as a beginning and an end:--the beginning being the inimitable "prologue" as it now stands; the middle the history of the pilgrims' doings at canterbury; and the close their return and farewell celebration at the tabard inn. though chaucer carried out only about a fourth part of this plan, yet we can see, as clearly as if the whole poem lay before us in a completed form, that its most salient feature was intended to lie in the variety of its characters. each of these characters is distinctly marked out in itself, while at the same time it is designed as the type of a class. this very obvious criticism of course most readily admits of being illustrated by the "prologue"--a gallery of genre-portraits which many master-hands have essayed to reproduce with pen or with pencil. indeed one lover of chaucer sought to do so with both--poor gifted blake, whose descriptive text of his picture of the canterbury pilgrims charles lamb, with the loving exaggeration in which he was at times fond of indulging, pronounced the finest criticism on chaucer's poem he had ever read. but it should be likewise noticed that the character of each pilgrim is kept up through the poem, both incidentally in the connecting passages between tale and tale, and in the manner in which the tales themselves are introduced and told. the connecting passages are full of dramatic vivacity; in these the "host," master harry bailly, acts as a most efficient choragus, but the other pilgrims are not silent, and in the "manciple's" prologue, the "cook" enacts a bit of downright farce for the amusement of the company and of stray inhabitants of "bob-up-and-down." he is, however, homoeopathically cured of the effects of his drunkenness, so that the "host" feels justified in offering up a thanksgiving to bacchus for his powers of conciliation. the "man of law's" prologue is an argument; the "wife of bath's" the ceaseless clatter of an indomitable tongue. the sturdy "franklin" corrects himself when deviating into circumlocution:-- till that the brighte sun had lost his hue, for th' horizon had reft the sun of light, (this is as much to say as: it was night). the "miller" "tells his churlish tale in his manner," of which manner the less said the better; while in the "reeve's tale," chaucer even, after the manner of a comic dramatist, gives his northern undergraduate a vulgar ungrammatical phraseology, probably designedly, since the poet was himself a "southern man." the "pardoner" is exuberant in his sample-eloquence; the "doctor of physic" is gravely and sententiously moral-- --a proper man, and like a prelate, by saint runyan, says the "host." most sustained of all, though he tells no tale, is, from the nature of the case, the character of harry bailly, the host of the tabard, himself--who, whatever resemblance he may bear to his actual original, is the anecestor of a long line of descendants, including mine host of the garter in the "merry wives of windsor." he is a thorough worldling, to whom anything smacking of the precisian in morals is as offensive as anything of a romantic tone in literature; he smells a lollard without fail, and turns up his nose at an old-fashioned ballad or a string of tragic instances as out of date or tedious. in short, he speaks his mind and that of other more timid people at the same time, and is one of those sinners whom everybody both likes and respects. "i advise," says the "pardoner," with polite impudence (when inviting the company to become purchasers of the holy wares which he has for sale), that --our host, he shall begin, for he is most enveloped in sin. he is thus both an admirable picture in himself, and an admirable foil to those characters which are most unlike him--above all to the "parson" and the "clerk of oxford," the representatives of religion and learning. as to the "tales" themselves, chaucer beyond a doubt meant their style and tone to be above all things popular. this is one of the causes accounting for the favour shown to the work,--a favour attested, so far as earlier times are concerned, by the vast number of manuscripts existing of it. the "host" is, so to speak, charged with the constant injunction of this cardinal principle of popularity as to both theme and style. "tell us," he coolly demands of the most learned and sedate of all his fellow-travellers, --some merry thing of adventures; your termes, your colours, and your figures, keep them in store, till so be ye indite high style, as when that men to kinges write; speak ye so plain at this time, we you pray, that we may understande that ye say. and the "clerk" follows the spirit of the injunction both by omitting, as impertinent, a proeme in which his original, petrarch, gives a great deal of valuable, but not in its connexion interesting, geographical information, and by adding a facetious moral to what he calls the "unrestful matter" of his story. even the "squire," though, after the manner of young men, far more than his elders addicted to the grand style, and accordingly specially praised for his eloquence by the simple "franklin," prefers to reduce to its plain meaning the courtly speech of the knight of the brazen steed. in connexion with what was said above, it is observable that each of the "tales" in subject suits its narrator. not by chance is the all-but-quixotic romance of "palamon and arcite," taken by chaucer from boccaccio's "teseide," related by the "knight"; not by chance does the "clerk," following petrarch's latin version of a story related by the same author, tell the even more improbable, but, in the plainness of its moral, infinitely more fructuous tale of patient griseldis. how well the "second nun" is fitted with a legend which carries us back a few centuries into the atmosphere of hrosvitha's comedies, and suggests with the utmost verisimilitude the nature of a nun's lucubrations on the subject of marriage. it is impossible to go through the whole list of the "tales"; but all may be truly said to be in keeping with the characters and manners (often equally indifferent) of their tellers--down to that of the "nun's priest," which, brimful of humour as it is, has just the mild naughtiness about it which comes so drolly from a spiritual director in his worldlier hour. not a single one of these "tales" can with any show of reason be ascribed to chaucer's own invention. french literature--chiefly though not solely that of fabliaux--doubtless supplied the larger share of his materials; but that here also his debts to italian literature, and to boccaccio in particular, are considerable, seems hardly to admit of denial. but while chaucer freely borrowed from foreign models, he had long passed beyond the stage of translating without assimilating. it would be rash to assume that where he altered he invariably improved. his was not the unerring eye which, like shakspere's in his dramatic transfusions of plutarch, missed no particle of the gold mingled with the baser metal, but rejected the dross with sovereign certainty. in dealing with italian originals more especially, he sometimes altered for the worse, and sometimes for the better; but he was never a mere slavish translator. so in the "knight's tale" he may be held in some points to have deviated disadvantageously from his original; but, on the other hand, in the "clerk's tale," he inserts a passage on the fidelity of women, and another on the instability of the multitude, besides adding a touch of nature irresistibly pathetic in the exclamation of the faithful wife, tried beyond her power of concealing the emotion within her: o gracious god! how gentle and how kind ye seemed by your speech and your visage the day that maked was our marriage. so also in the "man of law's tale," which is taken from the french, he increases the vivacity of the narrative by a considerable number of apostrophes in his own favourite manner, besides pleasing the general reader by divers general reflexions of his own inditing. almost necessarily, the literary form and the self-consistency of his originals lose under such treatment. but his dramatic sense, on which perhaps his commentators have not always sufficiently dwelt, is rarely, if ever, at fault. two illustrations of this gift in chaucer must suffice, which shall be chosen in two quarters where he has worked with materials of the most widely different kind. many readers must have compared with dante's original (in canto of the "inferno") chaucer's version in the "monk's tale" of the story of ugolino. chaucer, while he necessarily omits the ghastly introduction, expands the pathetic picture of the sufferings of the father and his sons in their dungeon, and closes, far more briefly and effectively than dante, with a touch of the most refined pathos:-- de hugilino comite pisae. of hugolin of pisa the langour there may no tongue telle for pity. but little out of pisa stands a tower, in whiche tower in prison put was he; and with him be his little children three. the eldest scarcely five years was of age; alas! fortune! it was great cruelty such birds as these to put in such a cage. condemned he was to die in that prison, for royer, which that bishop was of pise, had on him made a false suggestion, through which the people gan on him arise, and put him in prison in such a wise, as ye have heard, and meat and drink he had so little that it hardly might suffice, and therewithal it was full poor and bad. and on a day befell that in that hour when that his meat was wont to be y-brought, the gaoler shut the doors of that tower. he heard it well, although he saw it not; and in his heart anon there fell a thought that they his death by hunger did devise. "alas!" quoth he, "alas! that i was wrought!" therewith the teares fell from his eyes his youngest son, that three years was of age, unto him said: "father, why do ye weep? when will the gaoler bring us our pottage? is there no morsel bread that ye do keep? i am so hungry that i cannot sleep. now woulde god that i might sleep for ever! then should not hunger in my belly creep. there is no thing save bread that i would liever." thus day by day this child began to cry, till in his father's lap adown he lay, and saide: "farewell, father, i must die!" and kissed his father, and died the same day. the woeful father saw that dead he lay, and his two arms for woe began to bite, and said: "fortune, alas and well-away! for all my woe i blame thy treacherous spite." his children weened that it for hunger was, that he his arms gnawed, and not for woe. and saide: "father, do not so, alas! but rather eat the flesh upon us two. our flesh thou gavest us, our flesh thou take us fro, and eat enough." right thus they to him cried; and after that, within a day or two, they laid them in his lap adown and died. the father in despair likewise died of hunger; and such was the end of the mighty earl of pisa, whose tragedy whosoever desires to hear at greater length may read it as told by the great poet of italy hight dante. the other instance is that of the "pardoner's tale," which would appear to have been based on a fabliau now lost, though the substance of it is preserved in an italian novel, and in one or two other versions. for the purpose of noticing how chaucer arranges as well as tells a story, the following attempt at a condensed prose rendering of his narrative may be acceptable:-- once upon a time in flanders there was a company of young men, who gave themselves up to every kind of dissipation and debauchery--haunting the taverns where dancing and dicing continues day and night, eating and drinking, and serving the devil in his own temple by their outrageous life of luxury. it was horrible to hear their oaths, how they tore to pieces our blessed lord's body, as if they thought the jews had not rent him enough; and each laughed at the sin of the others, and all were alike immersed in gluttony and wantonness. and so one morning it befel that three of these rioters were sitting over their drink in a tavern, long before the bell had rung for nine o'clock prayers. and as they sat, they heard a bell clinking before a corpse that was being carried to the grave. so one of them bade his servant-lad go and ask what was the name of the dead man; but the boy said that he knew it already, and that it was the name of an old companion of his master's. as he had been sitting drunk on a bench, there had come a privy thief, whom men called death, and who slew all the people in this country; and he had smitten the drunken man's heart in two with his spear, and had then gone on his way without any more words. this death had slain a thousand during the present pestilence; and the boy thought it worth warning his master to beware of such an adversary, and to be ready to meet him at any time. "so my mother taught me; i say no more." "marry," said the keeper of the tavern; "the child tells the truth: this death has slain all the inhabitants of a great village not far from here; i think that there must be the place where he dwells." then the rioter swore with some of his big oaths that he at least was not afraid of this death, and that he would seek him out wherever he dwelt. and at his instance his two boon-companions joined with him in a vow that before nightfall they would slay the false traitor death, who was the slayer of so many; and the vow they swore was one of closest fellowship between them--to live and die for one another as if they had been brethren born. and so they went forth in their drunken fury towards the village of which the taverner had spoken, with terrible execrations on their lips that "death should be dead, if they might catch him." they had not gone quite half a mile when at a stile between two fields they came upon a poor old man, who meekly greeted them with a "god save you, sirs." but the proudest of the three rioters answered him roughly, asking him why he kept himself all wrapped up except his face, and how so old a fellow as he had managed to keep alive so long? and the old man looked him straight in the face and replied, "because in no town or village, though i journey as far as the indies, can i find a man willing to exchange his youth for my age; and therefore i must keep it so long as god wills it so. death, alas! will not have my life, and so i wander about like a restless fugitive, and early and late i knock on the ground, which is my mother's gate, with my staff, and say, 'dear mother, let me in! behold how i waste away! alas! when shall my bones be at rest? mother, gladly will i give you my chest containing all my worldly gear in return for a shroud to wrap me in.' but she refuses me that grace, and that is why my face is pale and withered. but you, sirs, are uncourteous to speak rudely to an inoffensive old man, when holy writ bids you reverence grey hairs. therefore, never again give offence to an old man, if you wish men to be courteous to you in your age, should you live so long. and so god be with you: i must go whither i have to go." but the second rioter prevented him, and swore he should not depart so lightly. "thou spakest just now of that traitor death, who slays all our friends in this country. as thou art his spy, hear me swear that, unless thou tellest where he is, thou shalt die; for thou art in his plot to slay us young men, thou false thief!" then the old man told them that if they were so desirous of finding death, they had but to turn up a winding path to which he pointed, and there they would find him they sought in a grove under an oak-tree, where the old man had just left him; "he will not try to hide himself for all your boasting. and so may god the redeemer save you and amend you!" and when he had spoken, all the three rioters ran till they came to the tree. but what they found there was a treasure of golden florins--nearly seven bushels of them as they thought. then they no longer sought after death, but sat down all three by the shining gold. and the youngest of them spoke first, and declared that fortune had given this treasure to them, so that they might spend the rest of their lives in mirth and jollity. the question was how to take this money--which clearly belonged to some one else--safely to the house of one of the three companions. it must be done by night; so let them draw lots, and let him on whom the lot fell run to the town to fetch bread and wine, while the other two guarded the treasure carefully till the night came, when they might agree whither to transport it. the lot fell on the youngest, who forthwith went his way to the town. then one of those who remained with the treasure said to the other: "thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother, and i will tell thee something to thy advantage. our companion is gone, and here is a great quantity of gold to be divided among us three. but say, if i could manage so that the gold is divided between us two, should i not do thee a friend's turn?" and when the other failed to understand him, he made him promise secrecy and disclosed his plan. "two are stronger than one. when he sits down, arise as if thou wouldest sport with him; and while thou art struggling with him as in play, i will rive him through both his sides; and look thou do the same with thy dagger. after which, my dear friend, we will divide all the gold between you and me, and then we may satisfy all our desires and play at dice to our hearts' content." meanwhile the youngest rioter, as he went up to the town, revolved in his heart the beauty of the bright new florins, and said unto himself: "if only i could have all this gold to myself alone, there is no man on earth who would live so merrily as i." and at last the devil put it into his relentless heart to buy poison, in order with it to kill his two companions. and straightway he went on into the town to an apothecary, and besought him to sell him some poison for destroying some rats which infested his house and a polecat which, he said, had made away with his capons. and the apothecary said: "thou shalt have something of which (so may god save my soul!) no creature in all the world could swallow a single grain without losing his life thereby--and that in less time than thou wouldest take to walk a mile in." so the miscreant shut up this poison in a box, and then he went into the next street and borrowed three large bottles, into two of which he poured his poison, while the third he kept clean to hold drink for himself; for he meant to work hard all the night to carry away the gold. so he filled his three bottles with wine, and then went back to his companions under the tree. what need to make a long discourse of what followed? as they had plotted their comrade's death, so they slew him, and that at once. and when they had done this, the one who had counselled the deed said, "now let us sit and drink and make merry, and then we will bury his body." and it happened to him by chance to take one of the bottles which contained the poison; and he drank, and gave drink of it to his fellow; and thus they both speedily died. the plot of this story is, as observed, not chaucer's. but how carefully, how artistically the narrative is elaborated, incident by incident, and point by point! how well every effort is prepared, and how well every turn of the story is explained! nothing is superfluous, but everything is arranged with care, down to the circumstances of the bottles being bought, for safety's sake, in the next street to the apothecary's, and of two out of three bottles being filled with poison, which is at once a proceeding natural in itself, and increases the chances against the two rioters when they are left to choose for themselves. this it is to be a good story-teller. but of a different order is the change introduced by chaucer into his original, where the old hermit--who, of course, is death himself--is fleeing from death. chaucer's old man is seeking death, but seeking him in vain--like the wandering jew of the legend. this it is to be a poet. of course it is always necessary to be cautious before asserting any apparent addition of chaucer's to be his own invention. thus, in the "merchant's tale," the very naughty plot of which is anything but original, it is impossible to say whether such is the case with the humorous competition of advice between justinus and placebo, ("placebo" seems to have been a current term to express the character or the ways of "the too deferential man." "flatterers be the devil's chaplains, that sing aye placebo."--"parson's tale."), or with the fantastic machinery in which pluto and proserpine anticipate the part played by oberon and titania in "a midsummer night's dream." on the other hand, chaucer is capable of using goods manifestly borrowed or stolen for a purpose never intended in their original employment. puck himself must have guided the audacious hand which could turn over the leaves of so respected a father of the church as st. jerome, in order to derive from his treatise "on perpetual virginity" materials for the discourse on matrimony delivered, with illustrations essentially her own, by the "wife of bath." two only among these "tales" are in prose--a vehicle of expression, on the whole, strange to the polite literature of the pre-renascence ages--but not both for the same reason. the first of these "tales" is told by the poet himself, after a stop has been unceremoniously put upon his recital of the "ballad of sir thopas" by the host. the ballad itself is a fragment of straightforward burlesque, which shows that in both the manner and the metre (dunbar's burlesque ballad of "sir thomas norray" is in the same stanza) of ancient romances, literary criticism could even in chaucer's days find its opportunities for satire, though it is going rather far to see in "sir thopas" a predecessor of "don quixote." the "tale of meliboeus" is probably an english version of a french translation of albert of brescia's famous "book of consolation and counsel," which comprehends in a slight narrative framework a long discussion between the unfortunate meliboeus, whom the wrongs and sufferings inflicted upon him and his have brought to the verge of despair, and his wise helpmate, dame prudence. by means of a long argumentation propped up by quotations (not invariably assigned with conscientious accuracy to their actual source) from "the book," seneca, "tullius," and other authors, she at last persuades him not only to reconcile himself to his enemies, but to forgive them, even as he hopes to be forgiven. and thus the tale well bears out the truth impressed upon meliboeus by the following ingeniously combined quotation:-- and there said once a clerk in two verses: what is better than gold? jasper. and what is better than jasper? wisdom. and what is better than wisdom? woman. and what is better than woman? no thing. certainly, chaucer gave proof of consummate tact and taste, as well as of an unaffected personal modesty, in assigning to himself as one of the company of pilgrims, instead of a tale bringing him into competition with the creatures of his own invention, after his mocking ballad has served its turn, nothing more ambitious than a version of a popular discourse--half narrative, half homily--in prose. but a question of far greater difficulty and moment arises with regard to the other prose piece included among the "canterbury tales." of these the so-called "parson's tale" is the last in order of succession. is it to be looked upon as an integral part of the collection; and, if so, what general and what personal significance should be attached to it? as it stands, the long tractate or sermon (partly adapted from a popular french religious manual), which bears the name of the "parson's tale," is, if not unfinished, at least internally incomplete. it lacks symmetry, and fails entirely to make good the argument or scheme of divisions with which the sermon begins, as conscientiously as one of barrow's. accordingly, an attempt has been made to show that what we have is something different from the "meditation" which chaucer originally put into his "parson's" mouth. but, while we may stand in respectful awe of the german daring which, whether the matter in hand be a few pages of chaucer, a book of homer, or a chapter of the old testament, is fully prepared to show which parts of each are mutilated, which interpolated, and which transposed, we may safely content ourselves, in the present instance, with considering the preliminary question. a priori, is there sufficient reason for supposing any transpositions, interpolations, and mutilations to have been introduced into the "parson's tale"? the question is full of interest; for while, on the one hand, the character of the "parson" in the "prologue" has been frequently interpreted as evidence of sympathy on chaucer's part with wycliffism, on the other hand, the "parson's tale," in its extant form, goes far to disprove the supposition that its author was a wycliffite. this, then, seems the appropriate place for briefly reviewing the vexed question--was chaucer a wycliffite? apart from the character of the "parson" and from the "parson's tale," what is the nature of our evidence on the subject? in the first place, nothing could be clearer than that chaucer was a very free-spoken critic of the life of the clergy--more especially of the regular clergy,--of his times. in this character he comes before us from his translation of the "roman de la rose" to the "parson's tale" itself, where he inveighs with significant earnestness against self indulgence on the part of those who are religious, or have "entered into orders, as sub-deacon, or deacon, or priest, or hospitallers." in the "canterbury tales," above all, his attacks upon the friars run nearly the whole gamut of satire, stopping short perhaps before the note of high moral indignation. moreover, as has been seen, his long connexion with john of gaunt is a well-established fact; and it has thence been concluded that chaucer fully shared the opinions and tendencies represented by his patron. in the supposition that chaucer approved of the countenance for a long time shown by john of gaunt to wyclif there is nothing improbable; neither, however, is there anything improbable in this other supposition, that, when the duke of lancaster openly washed his hands of the heretical tenets to the utterance of which wyclif had advanced, chaucer, together with the large majority of englishmen, held with the politic duke rather than with the still unflinching reformer. so long as wyclif's movement consisted only of an opposition to ecclesiastical pretensions on the one hand, and of an attempt to revive religious sentiment on the other, half the country or more was wycliffite, and chaucer no doubt with the rest. but it would require positive evidence to justify the belief that from this feeling chaucer ever passed to sympathy with lollardry, in the vague but sufficiently intelligible sense attaching to that term in the latter part of richard the second's reign. richard ii himself, whose patronage of chaucer is certain, in the end attempted rigorously to suppress lollardry; and henry iv, the politic john of gaunt's yet more politic son, to whom chaucer owed the prosperity enjoyed by him in the last year of his life, became a persecutor almost as soon as he became a king. though, then, from the whole tone of his mind, chaucer could not but sympathise with the opponents of ecclesiastical domination--though, as a man of free and critical spirit, and of an inborn ability for penetrating beneath the surface, he could not but find subjects for endless blame and satire in the members of those mendicant orders in whom his chief patron's academical ally had recognised the most formidable obstacles to the spread of pure religion--yet all this would not justify us in regarding him as personally a wycliffite. indeed, we might as well at once borrow the phraseology of a recent respectable critic, and set down dan chaucer as a puritan! the policy of his patron tallied with the view which a fresh practical mind such as chaucer's would naturally be disposed to take of the influence of monks and friars, or at least of those monks and friars whose vices and foibles were specially prominent in his eyes. there are various reasons why men oppose established institutions in the season of their decay; but a fourteenth century satirist of the monks, or even of the clergy at large, was not necessarily a lollard, any more than a nineteenth century objector to doctors' drugs is necessarily a homoeopathist. but, it is argued by some, chaucer has not only assailed the false; he has likewise extolled the true. he has painted both sides of the contrast. on the one side are the monk, the friar, and the rest of their fellows; on the other is the "poor parson of a town"--a portrait, if not of wyclif himself, at all events of a wycliffite priest; and in the "tale" or sermon put in the parson's mouth are recognisable beneath the accumulations of interested editors some of the characteristic marks of wycliffism. who is not acquainted with the exquisite portrait in question?-- a good man was there of religion, and was a poore parson of a town. but rich he was of holy thought and work. he was also a learned man, a clerk that christes gospel truly woulde preach; and his parishioners devoutly teach. benign he was, and wondrous diligent, and in adversity full patient. and such he was y-proved ofte sithes. full loth he was to curse men for his tithes; but rather would he give, without doubt, unto his poor parishioners about of his off'ring and eke of his substance. he could in little wealth have suffisance. wide was his parish, houses far asunder, yet failed he not for either rain or thunder in sickness nor mischance to visit all the furthest in his parish, great and small, upon his feet, and in his hand a staff. this noble ensample to his sheep he gave, that first he wrought, and afterwards he taught out of the gospel he those wordes caught, and this figure he added eke thereto, that "if gold ruste, what shall iron do?" for if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, no wonder is it if a layman rust; and shame it is, if that a priest take keep, a foul shepherd to see and a clean sheep; well ought a priest ensample for to give by his cleanness, how that his sheep should live. he put not out his benefice on hire, and left his sheep encumbered in the mire, and ran to london unto sainte paul's, to seek himself a chantery for souls, or maintenance with a brotherhood to hold; but dwelt at home, and kepte well his fold, so that the wolf ne'er made it to miscarry; he was a shepherd and no mercenary. and though he holy were, and virtuous, he was to sinful man not despitous, and of his speech nor difficult nor digne, but in his teaching discreet and benign. for to draw folk to heaven by fairness, by good ensample, this was his business: but were there any person obstinate, what so he were, of high or low estate, him would he sharply snub at once. than this a better priest, i trow, there nowhere is. he waited for no pomp and reverence, nor made himself a spiced conscience; but christes lore and his apostles' twelve he taught, but first he followed it himself. the most striking features in this portrait are undoubtedly those which are characteristics of the good and humble working clergyman of all times; and some of these, accordingly, goldsmith could appropriately borrow for his gentle poetic sketch of his parson-brother in "sweet auburn." but there are likewise points in the sketch which may be fairly described as specially distinctive of wyclif's simple priests--though, as should be pointed out, these priests could not themselves be designated parsons of towns. among the latter features are the specially evangelical source of the "parson's" learning and teaching; and his outward appearance--the wandering, staff in hand, which was specially noted in an archiepiscopal diatribe against these novel ministers of the people. yet it seems unnecessary to conclude anything beyond this: that the feature which chaucer desired above all to mark and insist upon in his "parson," was the poverty and humility which in him contrasted with the luxurious self-indulgence of the "monk," and the blatant insolence of the "pardoner." from this point of view it is obvious why the "parson" is made brother to the "ploughman." for, in drawing the latter, chaucer cannot have forgotten that other ploughman whom langland's poem had identified with him for whose sake chaucer's poor workman laboured for his poor neighbours, with the readiness always shown by the best of his class. nor need this recognition of the dignity of the lowly surprise us in chaucer, who had both sense of justice and sense of humour enough not to flatter one class at the expense of the rest, and who elsewhere (in the "manciples tale") very forcibly puts the truth that what in a great man is called a coup d'etat is called by a much simpler name in a humbler fellow-sinner. but though, in the "parson of a town," chaucer may not have wished to paint a wycliffite priest--still less a lollard, under which designation so many varieties of malcontents, in addition to the followers of wyclif, were popularly included--yet his eyes and ears were open; and he knew well enough what the world and its children are at all times apt to call those who are not ashamed of their religion, as well as those who make too conscious a profession of it. the world called them lollards at the close of the fourteenth century, and it called them puritans at the close of the sixteenth, and methodists at the close of the eighteenth. doubtless the vintners and the shipmen of chaucer's day, the patrons and purveyors of the playhouse in ben jonson's, the fox-hunting squires and town wits of cowper's, like their successors after them, were not specially anxious to distinguish nicely between more or less abominable varieties of saintliness. hence, when master harry bailly's tremendous oaths produce the gentlest of protests from the "parson," the jovial "host" incontinently "smells a lollard in the wind," and predicts (with a further flow of expletives) that there is a sermon to follow. whereupon the "shipman" protests not less characteristically:-- "nay, by my father's soul, that shall he not," saide the shipman, "here shall he not preach, he shall no gospel here explain or teach. we all believe in the great god," quoth he; "he woulde sowe some difficulty, or springe cockle in our clean corn." (the nickname lollards was erroneously derived from "lolia" (tares).) after each of the pilgrims except the "parson" has told a tale (so that obviously chaucer designed one of the divisions of his work to close with the "parson's"), he is again called upon by the "host". hereupon appealing to the undoubtedly evangelical and, it might without straining be said, wycliffite authority of timothy, he promises as his contribution a "merry tale in prose," which proves to consist of a moral discourse. in its extant form the "parson's tale" contains, by the side of much that might suitably have come from a wycliffite teacher, much of a directly opposite nature. for not only is the necessity of certain sacramental usages to which wyclif strongly objected insisted upon, but the spoliation of church property is unctuously inveighed against as a species of one of the cardinal sins. no enquiry could satisfactorily establish how much of this was taken over or introduced into the "parson's tale" by chaucer himself. but one would fain at least claim for him a passage in perfect harmony with the character drawn of the "parson" in the "prologue"--a passage (already cited in part in the opening section of the present essay) where the poet advocates the cause of the poor in words which, simple as they are, deserve to be quoted side by side with that immortal character itself. the concluding lines may therefore be cited here:-- think also that of the same seed of which churls spring, of the same seed spring lords; as well may the churl be saved as the lord. wherefore i counsel thee, do just so with thy churl as though wouldest thy lord did with thee, if thou wert in his plight. a very sinful man is a churl as towards sin. i counsel thee certainly, thou lord, that, thou work in such wise with thy churls that they rather love thee than dread thee. i know well, where there is degree above degree, it is reasonable that men should do their duty where it is due; but of a certainty, extortions, and despite of our underlings, are damnable. in sum, the "parson's tale" cannot, any more than the character of the "parson" in the "prologue," be interpreted as proving chaucer to have been a wycliffite. but the one as well as the other proves him to have perceived much of what was noblest in the wycliffite movement, and much of what was ignoblest in the reception with which it met at the hands of worldlings--before, with the aid of the state, the church finally succeeded in crushing it, to all appearance, out of existence. the "parson's tale" contains a few vigorous touches, in addition to the fine passage quoted, which make it difficult to deny that chaucer's hand was concerned in it. the inconsistency between the religious learning ascribed to the "parson" and a passage in the "tale," where the author leaves certain things to be settled by divines, will not be held of much account. the most probable conjecture seems therefore to be that the discourse has come down to us in a mutilated form. this may be due to the "tale" having remained unfinished at the time of chaucer's death: in which case it would form last words of no unfitting kind. as for the actual last words of the "canterbury tales"--the so-called "prayer of chaucer"--it would be unbearable to have to accept them as genuine. for in these the poet, while praying for the forgiveness of sins, is made specially to entreat the divine pardon for his "translations and inditing in worldly vanities," which he "revokes in his retractions." these include, besides the book of the leo (doubtless a translation or adaptation from machault) and many other books which the writer forgets, and "many a song and many a lecherous lay," all the principal poetical works of chaucer (with the exception of the "romaunt of the rose") discussed in this essay. on the other hand, he offers thanks for having had the grace given him to compose his translation of boethius and other moral and devotional works. there is, to be sure, no actual evidence to decide in either way the question as to the genuineness of this "prayer," which is entirely one of internal probability. those who will may believe that the monks, who were the landlords of chaucer's house at westminster, had in one way or the other obtained a controlling influence over his mind. stranger things than this have happened; but one prefers to believe that the poet of the "canterbury tales" remained master of himself to the last. he had written much which a dying man might regret; but it would be sad to have to think that, "because of humility," he bore false witness at the last against an immortal part of himself--his poetic genius. chapter . characteristics of chaucer and of his poetry. thus, then, chaucer had passed away;--whether in good or in evil odour with the powerful interest with which john of gaunt's son had entered into his unwritten concordate, after all matters but little now. he is no dim shadow to us, even in his outward presence; for we possess sufficient materials from which to picture to ourselves with good assurance what manner of man he was. occleve painted from memory, on the margin of one of his own works, a portrait of his "worthy master," over against a passage in which, after praying the blessed virgin to intercede for the eternal happiness of one who had written so much in her honour, he proceeds as follows:-- although his life be quenched, the resemblance of him hath in me so fresh liveliness, that to put other men in remembrance of his person i have here his likeness made, to this end in very soothfastness, that they that have of him lost thought and mind may by the painting here again him find. in this portrait, in which the experienced eye of sir harris nicolas sees "incomparably the best portrait of chaucer yet discovered," he appears as an elderly rather than aged man, clad in dark gown and hood--the latter of the fashion so familiar to us from this very picture, and from the well known one of chaucer's last patron, king henry iv. his attitude in this likeness is that of a quiet talker, with downcast eyes, but sufficiently erect bearing of body. one arm is extended, and seems to be gently pointing some observation which has just issued from the poet's lips. the other holds a rosary, which may be significant of the piety attributed to chaucer by occleve, or may be a mere ordinary accompaniment of conversation, as it is in parts of greece to the present day. the features are mild but expressive, with just a suspicion--certainly no more--of saturnine or sarcastic humour. the lips are full, and the nose is what is called good by the learned in such matters. several other early portraits of chaucer exist, all of which are stated to bear much resemblance to one another. among them is one in an early if not contemporary copy of occleve's poems, full-length, and superscribed by the hand which wrote the manuscript. in another, which is extremely quaint, he appears on horseback, in commemoration of his ride to canterbury, and is represented as short of stature, in accordance with the description of himself in the "canterbury tales." for, as it fortunately happens, he has drawn his likeness for us with his own hand, as he appeared on the occasion to that most free-spoken of observers and most personal of critics, the host of the tabard, the "cock" and marshal of the company of pilgrims. the fellow-travellers had just been wonderfully sobered (as well they might be) by the piteous tale of the prioress concerning the little clergy-boy,--how, after the wicked jews had cut his throat because he ever sang "o alma redemptoris," and had cast him into a pit, he was found there by his mother loudly giving forth the hymn in honour of the blessed virgin which he had loved so well. master harry bailly was, as in duty bound, the first to interrupt by a string of jests the silence which had ensued:-- and then at first he looked upon me, and saide thus: "what man art thou?" quoth he; "thou lookest as thou wouldest find a hare, for over upon the ground i see thee stare. approach more near, and looke merrily! now 'ware you, sirs, and let this man have space. he in the waist is shaped as well as i; this were a puppet in an arm to embrace for any woman, small and fair of face. he seemeth elfish by his countenance, for unto no wight doth he dalliance. from this passage we may gather, not only that chaucer was, as the "host" of the tabard's transparent self-irony implies, small of stature and slender, but that he was accustomed to be twitted on account of the abstracted or absent look which so often tempts children of the world to offer its wearer a penny for his thoughts. for "elfish" means bewitched by the elves, and hence vacant or absent in demeanour. it is thus, with a few modest but manifestly truthful touches, that chaucer, after the manner of certain great painters, introduces his own figure into a quiet corner of his crowded canvas. but mere outward likeness is of little moment, and it is a more interesting enquiry whether there are any personal characteristics of another sort, which it is possible with safety to ascribe to him, and which must be, in a greater or less degree, connected with the distinctive qualities of his literary genius. for in truth it is but a sorry makeshift of literary biographers to seek to divide a man who is an author into two separate beings, in order to avoid the conversely fallacious procedure of accounting for everything which an author has written by something which the man has done or been inclined to do. what true poet has sought to hide, or succeeded in hiding, his moral nature from his muse? none in the entire band, from petrarch to villon, and least of all the poet whose song, like so much of chaucer's, seems freshly derived from nature's own inspiration. one very pleasing quality in chaucer must have been his modesty. in the course of his life this may have helped to recommend him to patrons so many and so various, and to make him the useful and trustworthy agent that he evidently became for confidential missions abroad. physically, as has been seen, he represents himself as prone to the habit of casting his eyes on the ground; and we may feel tolerably sure that to this external manner corresponded a quiet, observant disposition, such as that which may be held to have distinguished the greatest of chaucer's successors among english poets. to us, of course, this quality of modesty in chaucer makes itself principally manifest in the opinion which he incidentally shows himself to entertain concerning his own rank and claims as an author. herein, as in many other points, a contrast is noticeable between him and the great italian masters, who were so sensitive as to the esteem in which they and their poetry were held. who could fancy chaucer crowned with laurel, like petrarch, or even, like dante, speaking with proud humility of "the beautiful style that has done honour to him," while acknowledging his obligation for it to a great predecessor? chaucer again and again disclaims all boasts of perfection, or pretensions to pre-eminence, as a poet. his canterbury pilgrims have in his name to disavow, like persius, having slept on mount parnassus, or possessing "rhetoric" enough to describe a heroine's beauty; and he openly allows that his spirit grows dull as he grows older, and that he finds a difficulty as a translator in matching his rhymes to his french original. he acknowledges as incontestable the superiority of the poets of classical antiquity:-- --little book, no writing thou envy, but subject be to all true poesy, and kiss the steps, where'er thou seest space of virgil, ovid, homer, lucan, stace (statius). but more than this. in the "house of fame" he expressly disclaims having in his light and imperfect verse sought to pretend to "mastery" in the art poetical; and in a charmingly expressed passage of the "prologue" to the "legend of good women" he describes himself as merely following in the wake of those who have already reaped the harvest of amorous song, and have carried away the corn:-- and i come after, gleaning here and there, and am full glad if i can find an ear of any goodly word that ye have left. modesty of this stamp is perfectly compatible with a certain self-consciousness which is hardly ever absent from greatness, and which at all events supplies a stimulus not easily dispensed with except by sustained effort on the part of a poet. the two qualities seem naturally to combine into that self-containedness (very different from self-contentedness) which distinguishes chaucer, and which helps to give to his writings a manliness of tone, the direct opposite of the irretentive querulousness found in so great a number of poets in all times. he cannot indeed be said to maintain an absolute reserve concerning himself and his affairs in his writings; but as he grows older, he seems to become less and less inclined to take the public into his confidence, or to speak of himself except in a pleasantly light and incidental fashion. and in the same spirit he seems, without ever folding his hands in his lap, or ceasing to be a busy man and an assiduous author, to have grown indifferent to the lack of brilliant success in life, whether as a man of letters or otherwise. so at least one seems justified in interpreting a remarkable passage in the "house of fame," the poem in which perhaps chaucer allows us to see more deeply into his mind than in any other. after surveying the various company of those who had come as suitors for the favours of fame, he tells us how it seemed to him (in his long december dream) that some one spoke to him in a kindly way, and saide: "friend, what is thy name? art thou come hither to have fame?" "nay, forsoothe, friend!" quoth i; "i came not hither (grand merci!) for no such cause, by my head! sufficeth me, as i were dead, that no wight have my name in hand. i wot myself best how i stand; for what i suffer, or what i think, i will myselfe all it drink, or at least the greater part as far forth as i know my art." with this modest but manly self-possession we shall not go far wrong in connecting what seems another very distinctly marked feature of chaucer's inner nature. he seems to have arrived at a clear recognition of the truth with which goethe humorously comforted eckermann in the shape of the proverbial saying, "care has been taken that the trees shall not grow into the sky." chaucer's, there is every reason to believe, was a contented faith, as far removed from self-torturing unrest as from childish credulity. hence his refusal to trouble himself, now that he has arrived at a good age, with original research as to the constellations. (the passage is all the more significant since chaucer, as has been seen, actually possessed a very respectable knowledge of astronomy.) that winged encyclopaedia, the eagle, has just been regretting the poet's unwillingness to learn the position of the great and the little bear, castor and pollux, and the rest, concerning which at present he does not know where they stand. but he replies, "no matter! --it is no need; i trust as well (so god me speed!) them that write of this matter, as though i know their places there." moreover, as he says (probably without implying any special allegorical meaning), they seem so bright that it would destroy my eyes to look upon them. personal inspection, in his opinion, was not necessary for a faith which at some times may, and at others must, take the place of knowledge; for we find him, at the opening of the "prologue" to the "legend of good women," in a passage the tone of which should not be taken to imply less than its words express, writing, as follows:-- a thousand times i have heard men tell, that there is joy in heaven, and pain in hell; and i accorde well that it is so but natheless, yet wot i well also, that there is none doth in this country dwell that either hath in heaven been or hell, or any other way could of it know, but that he heard, or found it written so, for by assay may no man proof receive. but god forbid that men should not believe more things than they have ever seen with eye! men shall not fancy everything a lie unless themselves it see, or else it do; for, god wot, not the less a thing is true, though every wight may not it chance to see. the central thought of these lines, though it afterwards receives a narrower and more commonplace application, is no other than that which has been so splendidly expressed by spenser in the couplet:-- why then should witless man so much misween that nothing is but that which he hath seen? the negative result produced in chaucer's mind by this firm but placid way of regarding matters of faith was a distrust of astrology, alchemy, and all the superstitions which in the "parson's tale" are noticed as condemned by the church. this distrust on chaucer's part requires no further illustration after what has been said elsewhere; it would have been well for his age if all its children had been as clear-sighted in these matters as he, to whom the practices connected with these delusive sciences seemed, and justly so from his point of view, not less impious than futile. his "canon yeoman's tale," a story of imposture so vividly dramatic in its catastrophe as to have suggested to ben jonson one of the most effective passages in his comedy "the alchemist," concludes with a moral of unmistakeable solemnity against the sinfulness, as well as uselessness, of "multiplying" (making gold by the arts of alchemy):-- --whoso maketh god his adversary, as for to work anything in contrary unto his will, certes ne'er shall he thrive, though that he multiply through all his life. but equally unmistakeable is the positive side of this frame of mind in such a passage as the following--which is one of those belonging to chaucer himself, and not taken from his french original--in the "man of law's tale." the narrator is speaking of the voyage of constance, after her escape from the massacre in which, at a feast, all her fellow-christians had been killed, and of how she was borne by the "wild wave" from "surrey" (syria) to the northumbrian shore:-- here men might aske, why she was not slain? eke at the feast who might her body save? and i answere that demand again: who saved daniel in th' horrible cave, when every wight save him, master or knave, the lion ate--before he could depart? no wight but god, whom he bare in his heart. "in her," he continues, "god desired to show his miraculous power, so that we should see his mighty works. for christ, in whom we have a remedy for every ill, often by means of his own does things for ends of his own, which are obscure to the wit of man, incapable by reason of our ignorance of understanding his wise providence. but since constance was not slain at the feast, it might be asked: who kept her from drowning in the sea? who, then, kept jonas in the belly of the whale, till he was spouted up at ninive? well do we know it was no one but he who kept the hebrew people from drowning in the waters, and made them to pass through the sea with dry feet. who bade the four spirits of the tempest, which have the power to trouble land and sea, north and south, and west and east, vex neither sea nor land nor the trees that grow on it? truly these things were ordered by him who kept this woman safe from the tempest, as well when she awoke as when she slept. but whence might this woman have meat and drink, and how could her sustenance last out to her for three years and more? who, then, fed saint mary the egyptian in the cavern or in the desert? assuredly no one but christ. it was a great miracle to feed five thousand folk with five loaves and two fishes; but god in their great need sent to them abundance." as to the sentiments and opinions of chaucer, then, on matters such as these, we can entertain no reasonable doubt. but we are altogether too ill acquainted with the details of his personal life, and with the motives which contributed to determine its course, to be able to arrive at any valid conclusions as to the way in which his principles affected his conduct. enough has been already said concerning the attitude seemingly observed by him towards the great public questions, and the great historical events, of his day. if he had strong political opinions of his own, or strong personal views on questions either of ecclesiastical policy or of religions doctrine--in which assumptions there seems nothing probable--he at all events did not wear his heart on his sleeve, or use his poetry, allegorical or otherwise, as a vehicle of his wishes, hopes, or fears on these heads. the true breath of freedom could hardly be expected to blow through the precincts of a plantagenet court. if chaucer could write the pretty lines in the "manciple's tale" about the caged bird and its uncontrollable desire for liberty, his contemporary barbour could apostrophise freedom itself as a noble thing, in words the simple manliness of which stirs the blood after a very different fashion. concerning his domestic relations, we may regard it as virtually certain that he was unhappy as a husband, though tender and affectionate as a father. considering how vast a proportion of the satire of all times--but more especially that of the middle ages, and in these again pre-eminently of the period of european literature which took its tone from jean de meung--is directed against woman and against married life, it would be difficult to decide how much of the irony, sarcasm, and fun lavished by chaucer on these themes is due to a fashion with which he readily fell in, and how much to the impulse of personal feeling. a perfect anthology, or perhaps one should rather say a complete herbarium, might be collected from his works of samples of these attacks on women. he has manifestly made a careful study of their ways, with which he now and then betrays that curiously intimate acquaintance to which we are accustomed in a richardson or a balzac. how accurate are such incidental remarks as this, that women are "full measurable" in such matters as sleep--not caring for so much of it at a time as men do! how wonderfully natural is the description of cressid's bevy of lady-visitors, attracted by the news that she is shortly to be surrendered to the greeks, and of the "nice vanity" i.e. foolish emptiness--of their consolatory gossip. "as men see in town, and all about, that women are accustomed to visit their friends," so a swarm of ladies came to cressid, "and sat themselves down, and said as i shall tell. 'i am delighted,' says one, 'that you will so soon see your father.' 'indeed i am not so delighted,' says another, 'for we have not seen half enough of her since she has been at troy.' 'i do hope,' quoth the third, 'that she will bring us back peace with her; in which case may almighty god guide her on her departure.' and cressid heard these words and womanish things as if she were far away; for she was burning all the time with another passion than any of which they knew; so that she almost felt her heart die for woe, and for weariness of that company." but his satire against women is rarely so innocent as this; and though several ladies take part in the canterbury pilgrimage, yet pilgrim after pilgrim has his saw or jest against their sex. the courteous "knight" cannot refrain from the generalisation that women all follow the favour of fortune. the "summoner," who is of a less scrupulous sort, introduces a diatribe against women's passionate love of vengeance; and the "shipman" seasons a story which requires no such addition by an enumeration of their favourite foibles. but the climax is reached in the confessions of the "wife of bath," who quite unhesitatingly says that women are best won by flattery and busy attentions; that when won they desire to have the sovereignty over their husbands, and that they tell untruths and swear to them with twice the boldness of men;--while as to the power of their tongue, she quotes the second-hand authority of her fifth husband for the saying that it is better to dwell with a lion or a foul dragon, than with a woman accustomed to chide. it is true that this same "wife of bath" also observes with an effective tu quoque:-- by god, if women had but written stories, as clerkes have within their oratories, they would have writ of men more wickedness than all the race of adam may redress; and the "legend of good women" seems, in point of fact, to have been intended to offer some such kind of amends as is here declared to be called for. but the balance still remains heavy against the poet's sentiments of gallantry and respect for women. it should at the same time be remembered that among the "canterbury tales" the two which are of their kind the most effective, constitute tributes to the most distinctively feminine and wifely virtue of fidelity. moreover, when coming from such personages as the pilgrims who narrate the "tales" in question, the praise of women has special significance and value. the "merchant" and the "shipman" may indulge in facetious or coarse jibes against wives and their behaviour, but the "man of law," full of grave experience of the world, is a witness above suspicion to the womanly virtue of which his narrative celebrates so illustrious an example, while the "clerk of oxford" has in his cloistered solitude, where all womanly blandishments are unknown, come to the conclusion that: men speak of job, most for his humbleness, as clerkes, when they list, can well indite, of men in special; but, in truthfulness, though praise by clerks of women be but slight, no man in humbleness can him acquit as women can, nor can be half so true as women are, unless all things be new. as to marriage, chaucer may be said generally to treat it in that style of laughing with a wry mouth, which has from time immemorial been affected both in comic writing and on the comic stage, but which, in the end, even the most determined old bachelor feels an occasional inclination to consider monotonous. in all this, however, it is obvious that something at least must be set down to conventionality. yet the best part of chaucer's nature, it is hardly necessary to say, was neither conventional nor commonplace. he was not, we may rest assured, one of that numerous class which in his days, as it does in ours, composed the population of the land of philistia--the persons so well defined by the scottish poet, sir david lyndsay (himself a courtier of the noblest type):-- who fixed have their hearts and whole intents on sensual lust, on dignity, and rents. doubtless chaucer was a man of practical good sense, desirous of suitable employment and of a sufficient income; nor can we suppose him to have been one of those who look upon social life and its enjoyments with a jaundiced eye, or who, absorbed in things which are not of this world, avert their gaze from it altogether. but it is hardly possible that rank and position should have been valued on their own account by one who so repeatedly recurs to his ideal of the true gentleman, as to a conception dissociated from mere outward circumstances, and more particularly independent of birth or inherited wealth. at times, we know, men find what they seek; and so chaucer found in boethius and in guillaume de lorris that conception which he both translates and reproduces, besides repeating it in a little "ballade," probably written by him in the last decennium of his life. by far the best-known and the finest of these passages is that in the "wife of bath's tale," which follows the round assertion that the "arrogance" against which it protests is not worth a hen; and which is followed by an appeal to a parallel passage in dante:-- look, who that is most virtuous alway privy and open, and most intendeth aye to do the gentle deedes that he can, take him for the greatest gentleman. christ wills we claim of him our gentleness, not of our elders for their old riches. for though they give us all their heritage through which we claim to be of high parage, yet may they not bequeathe for no thing-- to none of us--their virtuous living, that made them gentlemen y-called be, and bade us follow them in such degree. well can the wise poet of florence, that dante highte, speak of this sentence; lo, in such manner of rhyme is dante's tale: "seldom upriseth by its branches small prowess of man; for god of his prowess wills that we claim of him our gentleness; for of our ancestors we no thing claim but temporal thing, that men may hurt and maim." (the passage in canto of the "purgatorio" is thus translated by longfellow: "not oftentimes upriseth through the branches the probity of man; and this he wills who gives it, so that we may ask of him." its intention is only to show that the son is not necessarily what the father is before him; thus, edward i of england is a mightier man than was his father henry iii. chaucer has ingeniously, though not altogether legitimately, pressed the passage into his service.) by the still ignobler greed of money for its own sake there is no reason whatever to suppose chaucer to have been at any time actuated; although, under the pressure of immediate want, he devoted a "complaint" to his empty purse, and made known, in the proper quarters, his desire to see it refilled. finally, as to what is commonly called pleasure, he may have shared the fashions and even the vices of his age; but we know hardly anything on the subject, except that excess in wine, which is often held a pardonable peccadillo in a poet, receives his emphatic condemnation. it would be hazardous to assert of him, as herrick asserted of himself that though his "muse was jocund, life was chaste;" inasmuch as his name occurs in one unfortunate connexion full of suspiciousness. but we may at least believe him to have spoken his own sentiments in the doctor of physic's manly declaration that --of all treason sovereign pestilence is when a man betrayeth innocence. his true pleasures lay far away from those of vanity and dissipation. in the first place, he seems to have been a passionate reader. to his love of books he is constantly referring; indeed, this may be said to be the only kind of egotism which he seems to take a pleasure in indulging. at the opening of his earliest extant poem of consequence, the "book of the duchess," he tells us how he preferred to drive away a night rendered sleepless through melancholy thoughts, by means of a book, which he thought better entertainment than a game either at chess or at "tables." this passion lasted longer with him than the other passion which it had helped to allay; for in the sequel to the well-known passage in the "house of fame," already cited, he gives us a glimpse of himself at home, absorbed in his favourite pursuit:-- thou go'st home to thy house anon, and there, as dumb as any stone, thou sittest at another book, till fully dazed is thy look; and liv'st thus as a hermit quite, although thy abstinence is slight. and doubtless he counted the days lost in which he was prevented from following the rule of life which elsewhere be sets himself, to study and to read alway, day by day," and pressed even the nights into his service when he was not making his head ache with writing. how eager and, considering the times in which he lived, how diverse a reader he was, has already been abundantly illustrated in the course of this volume. his knowledge of holy writ was considerable, though it probably for the most part came to him at second-hand. he seems to have had some acquaintance with patristic and homiletic literature; he produced a version of the homily on mary magdalene, improperly attributed to origen; and, as we have seen, emulated king alfred in translating boethius's famous manual of moral philosophy. his latin learning extended over a wide range of literature, from virgil and ovid down to some of the favourite latin poets of the middle ages. it is to be feared that he occasionally read latin authors with so eager a desire to arrive at the contents of their books that he at times mistook their meaning--not far otherwise, slightly to vary a happy comparison made by one of his most eminent commentators, than many people read chaucer's own writings now-a-days. that he possessed any knowledge at all of greek may be doubted, both on general grounds and on account of a little slip or two in quotation of a kind not unusual with those who quote what they have not previously read. his "troilus and cressid" has only a very distant connexion indeed with homer, whose "iliad," before it furnished materials for the mediaeval troilus-legend, had been filtered through a brief latin epitome, and diluted into a latin novel, and a journal kept at the seat of war, of altogether apocryphal value. and, indeed, it must in general be conceded that, if chaucer had read much, he lays claim to having read more; for he not only occasionally ascribes to known authors works which we can by no means feel certain as to their having written, but at times he even cites (or is made to cite in all the editions of his works), authors who are altogether unknown to fame by the names which he gives to them. but then it must be remembered that other mediaeval writers have rendered themselves liable to the same kind of charge. quoting was one of the dominant literary fashions of the age; and just as a word without an oath went for but little in conversation, so a statement or sentiment in writing aquired greatly enhanced value when suggested by authority, even after no more precise a fashion than the use of the phrase "as old books say." in chaucer's days the equivalent of the modern "i have seen it said somewhere"--with perhaps the venturesome addition: "i think, in horace" had clearly not become an objectionable expletive. of modern literatures there can be no doubt that chaucer had made substantially his own, the two which could be of importance to him as a poet. his obligations to the french singers have probably been over-estimated--at all events if the view adopted in this essay be the correct one, and if the charming poem of the "flower and the leaf," together with the lively, but as to its meaning not very transparent, so-called "chaucer's dream," be denied admission among his genuine works. at the same time, the influence of the "roman de la rose" and that of the courtly poets, of whom machault was the chief in france and froissart the representative in england, are perceptible in chaucer almost to the last, nor is it likely that he should ever have ceased to study and assimilate them. on the other hand, the extent of his knowledge of italian literature has probably till of late been underrated in an almost equal degree. this knowledge displays itself not only in the imitation or adaptation of particular poems, but more especially in the use made of incidental passages and details. in this way his debts to dante were especially numerous; and it is curious to find proofs so abundant of chaucer's relatively close study of a poet with whose genius his own had so few points in common. notwithstanding first appearances, it is an open question whether chaucer had ever read boccaccio's "decamerone," with which he may merely have had in common the sources of several of his "canterbury tales." but as he certainly took one of them from the "teseide" (without improving it in the process), and not less certainly, and adapted the "filostrato" in his "troilus and cressid," it is strange that he should refrain from naming the author to whom he was more indebted than to any one other for poetic materials. but wide and diverse as chaucer's reading fairly deserves to be called, the love of nature was even stronger and more absorbing in him than the love of books. he has himself, in a very charming passage, compared the strength of the one and of the other of his predilections:-- and as for me, though i have knowledge slight, in bookes for to read i me delight, and to them give i faith and full credence, and in my heart have them in reverence so heartily, that there is game none that from my bookes maketh me be gone, but it be seldom on the holiday,-- save, certainly, when that the month of may is come, and that i hear the fowles sing, and see the flowers as they begin to spring, farewell my book, and my devotion. undoubtedly the literary fashion of chaucer's times is responsible for part of this may-morning sentiment, with which he is fond of beginning his poems (the canterbury pilgrimage is dated towards the end of april--but is not april "messenger to may"?). it had been decreed that flowers should be the badges of nations and dynasties, and the tokens of amorous sentiment; the rose had its votaries, and the lily, lauded by chaucer's "prioress" as the symbol of the blessed virgin; while the daisy, which first sprang from the tears of a forlorn damsel, in france gave its name (marguerite) to an entire species of courtly verse. the enthusiastic adoration professed by chaucer, in the "prologue" to the "legend of good women," for the daisy, which he afterwards identifies with the good alceste, the type of faithful wifehood, is of course a mere poetical figure. but there is in his use of these favourite literary devices, so to speak, a variety in sameness significant of their accordance with his own taste, and of the frank and fresh love of nature which animated him, and which seems to us as much a part of him as his love of books. it is unlikely that his personality will over become more fully known than it is at present; nor is there anything in respect of which we seem to see so clearly into his inner nature, as with regard to these twin predilections, to which he remains true in all his works, and in all his moods. while the study of books was his chief passion, nature was his chief joy and solace; while his genius enabled him to transfuse what he read in the former, what came home to him in the latter was akin to that genius itself; for he at times reminds us of his own fresh canace, whom he describes as looking so full of happiness during her walk through the wood at sunrise:-- what for the season, what for the morning and for the fowles that she hearde sing, for right anon she wiste what they meant right by their song, and knew all their intent. if the above view of chaucer's character and intellectual tastes and tendencies be in the main correct, there will seem to be nothing paradoxical in describing his literary progress, so far as its data are ascertainable, as a most steady and regular one. very few men awake to find themselves either famous or great of a sudden, and perhaps as few poets as other men, though it may be heresy against a venerable maxim to say so. chaucer's works form a clearly recognisable series of steps towards the highest achievement of which, under the circumstances in which he lived and wrote, he can be held to have been capable; and his long and arduous self-training, whether consciously or not directed to a particular end, was of that sure kind from which genius itself derives strength. his beginnings as a writer were dictated, partly by the impulse of that imitative faculty which, in poetic natures, is the usual precursor of the creative, partly by the influence of prevailing tastes and the absence of native english literary predecessors whom, considering the circumstances of his life and the nature of his temperament, he could have found it a congenial task to follow. french poems were, accordingly, his earliest models; but fortunately (unlike gower, whom it is so instructive to compare with chaucer, precisely because the one lacked that gift of genius which the other possessed) he seems at once to have resolved to make use for his poetical writings of his native speech. in no way, therefore, could he have begun his career with so happy a promise of its future, as in that which he actually chose. nor could any course so naturally have led him to introduce into his poetic diction the french idioms and words already used in the spoken language of englishmen, more especially in those classes for which he in the first instance wrote, and thus to confer upon our tongue the great benefit which it owes to him. again most fortunately, others had already pointed the way to the selection for literary use of that english dialect which was probably the most suitable for the purpose; and chaucer as a southern man (like his "parson of a town") belonged to a part of the country where the old alliterative verse had long since been discarded for classical and romance forms of versification. thus the "romaunt of the rose" most suitably opens his literary life--a translation in which there is nothing original except an occasional turn of phrase, but in which the translator finds opportunity for exercising his powers of judgment by virtually re-editing the work before him. and already in the "book of the duchess," though most unmistakeably a follower of machault, he is also the rival of the great french trouvere, and has advanced in freedom of movement not less than in agreeableness of form. then, as his travels extended his acquaintance with foreign literatures to that of italy, he here found abundant fresh materials from which to feed his productive powers, and more elaborate forms in which to clothe their results; while at the same time comparison, the kindly nurse of originality, more and more enabled him to recast instead of imitating, or encouraged him freely to invent. in "troilus and cressid" he produced something very different from a mere condensed translation, and achieved a work in which he showed himself a master of poetic expression and sustained narrative; in the "house of fame" and the "assembly of fowls" he moved with freedom in happily contrived allegories of his own invention; and with the "legend of good women" he had already arrived at a stage when he could undertake to review, under a pleasant pretext, but with evident consciousness of work done, the list of his previous works. "he hath," he said of himself, "made many a lay and many a thing." meanwhile the labour incidentally devoted by him to translation from the latin, or to the composition of prose treatises in the scholastic manner of academical exercises, could but little affect his general literary progress. the mere scholarship of youth, even if it be the reverse of close and profound, is wont to cling to a man through life and to assert its modest claims at any season; and thus, chaucer's school-learning exercised little influence either of an advancing or of a retarding kind upon the full development of his genius. nowhere is he so truly himself as in the masterpiece of his last years. for the "canterbury tales," in which he is at once greatest, most original, and most catholic in the choice of materials as well as in moral sympathies, bears the unmistakeable stamp of having formed the crowning labour of his life--a work which death alone prevented him from completing. it may be said, without presumption, that such a general view as this leaves ample room for all reasonable theories as to the chronology and sequence, where these remain more or less unsettled, of chaucer's indisputably genuine works. in any case, there is no poet whom, if only as an exercise in critical analysis, it is more interesting to study and re-study in connexion with the circumstances of his literary progress. he still, as has been seen, belongs to the middle ages, but to a period in which the noblest ideals of these middle ages are already beginning to pale and their mightiest institutions to quake around him; in which learning continues to be in the main scholasticism, the linking of argument with argument, and the accumulation of authority upon authority, and poetry remains to a great extent the crabbedness of clerks or the formality of courts. again, chaucer is mediaeval in tricks of style and turns of phrase; he often contents himself with the tritest of figures and the most unrefreshing of ancient devices, and freely resorts to a mixture of names and associations belonging to his own times with others derived from other ages. this want of literary perspective is a sure sign of mediaevalism, and one which has amused the world, or has jarred upon it, since the renascence taught men to study both classical and biblical antiquity as realities, and not merely as a succession of pictures or of tapestries on a wall. chaucer mingles things mediaeval and things classical as freely as he brackets king david with the philosopher seneca, or judas iscariot with the greek "dissimulator" sinon. his dido, mounted on a stout palfrey paper white of hue, with a red-and-gold saddle embroidered and embossed, resembles alice perrers in all her pomp rather than the virgilian queen. jupiter's eagle, the poet's guide and instructor in the allegory of the "house of fame," invokes "saint mary, saint james," and "saint clare" all at once; and the pair of lovers at troy sign their letters "la vostre t." and la vostre c." anachronisms of this kind (of the danger of which, by the way, to judge from a passage in the "prologue" to the "legend of good women," chaucer would not appear to have been wholly unconscious) are intrinsically of very slight importance. but the morality of chaucer's narratives is at times the artificial and overstrained morality of the middle ages, which, as it were, clutches hold of a single idea to the exclusion of all others--a morality which, when carried to its extreme consequences, makes monomaniacs as well as martyrs, in both of which species, occasionally perhaps combined in the same persons, the middle ages abound. the fidelity of griseldis under the trials imposed upon her by her, in point of fact, brutal husband is the fidelity of a martyr to unreason. the story was afterwards put on the stage in the elizabethan age; and though even in the play of "patient grissil" (by chettle and others), it is not easy to reconcile the husband's proceedings with the promptings of common sense, yet the playwrights, with the instinct of their craft, contrived to introduce some element of humanity into his character and of probability into his conduct. again the supra-chivalrous respect paid by arviragus, the breton knight of the "franklin's tale," to the sanctity of his wife's word, seriously to the peril of his own and his wife's honour, is an effort to which probably even the knight of la mancha himself would have proved unequal. it is not to be expected that chaucer should have failed to share some of the prejudices of his times as well as to fall in with their ways of thought and sentiment; and though it is the "prioress" who tells a story against the jews which passes the legend of hugh of lincoln, yet it would be very hazardous to seek any irony in this legend of bigotry. in general, much of that naivete which to modern readers seems chaucer's most obvious literary quality must be ascribed to the times in which he lived and wrote. this quality is in truth by no means that which most deeply impresses itself upon the observation of any one able to compare chaucer's writings with those of his more immediate predecessors and successors. but the sense in which the term naif should be understood in literary criticism is so imperfectly agreed upon among us, that we have not yet even found an english equivalent for the word. to chaucer's times, then, belongs much of what may at first sight seem to include itself among the characteristics of his genius; while, on the other hand, there are to be distinguished from these the influences due to his training and studies in two literatures--the french and the italian. in the former of these he must have felt at home, if not by birth and descent, at all events by social connexion, habits of life, and ways of thought, while in the latter he, whose own country's was still a half-fledged literary life, found ready to his hand masterpieces of artistic maturity, lofty in conception, broad in bearing, finished in form. there still remain, for summary review, the elements proper to his own poetic individuality--those which mark him out not only as the first great poet of his own nation, but as a great poet for all times. the poet must please; if he wishes to be successful and popular, he must suit himself to the tastes of his public; and even if he be indifferent to immediate fame, he must, as belonging to one of the most impressionable, the most receptive species of humankind, live in a sense with and for his generation. to meet this demand upon his genius, chaucer was born with many gifts which he carefully and assiduously exercised in a long series of poetical experiments, and which he was able felicitously to combine for the achievement of results unprecedented in our literature. in readiness of descriptive power, in brightness and variety of imagery, and in flow of diction, chaucer remained unequalled by any english poet, till he was surpassed--it seems not too much to say, in all three respects--by spenser. his verse, where it suits his purpose, glitters, to use dunbar's expression, as with fresh enamel, and its hues are variegated like those of a flemish tapestry. even where his descriptive enumerations seem at first sight monotonous or perfunctory, they are in truth graphic and true in their details, as in the list of birds in the "assembly of fowls," quoted in part on an earlier page of this essay, and in the shorter list of trees in the same poem, which is, however, in its general features imitated from boccaccio. neither king james i of scotland, nor spenser, who after chaucer essayed similar tours de force, were happier than he had been before them. or we may refer to the description of the preparations for the tournament and of the tournament itself in the "knight's tale," or to the thoroughly dutch picture of a disturbance in a farm-yard in the "nun's priest's." the vividness with which chaucer describes scenes and events as if he had them before his own eyes, was no doubt, in the first instance, a result of his own imaginative temperament; but one would probably not go wrong in attributing the fulness of the use which he made of this gift to the influence of his italian studies--more especially to those which led him to dante, whose multitudinous characters and scenes impress themselves with so singular and immediate a definiteness upon the imagination. at the same time, chaucer's resources seem inexhaustible for filling up or rounding off his narratives with the aid of chivalrous love or religious legend, by the introduction of samples of scholastic discourse or devices of personal or general allegory. he commands, where necessary, a rhetorician's readiness of illustration, and a masque-writer's inventiveness, as to machinery; he can even (in the "house of fame") conjure up an elaborate but self-consistent phantasmagory of his own, and continue it with a fulness proving that his fancy would not be at a loss for supplying even more materials than he cares to employ. but chaucer's poetry derived its power to please from yet another quality; and in this he was the first of our english poets to emulate the poets of the two literatures to which in the matter of his productions, and in the ornaments of his diction, he owed so much. there is in his verse a music which hardly ever wholly loses itself, and which at times is as sweet as that in any english poet after him. this assertion is not one which is likely to be gainsaid at the present day, when there is not a single lover of chaucer who would sit down contented with dryden's condescending mixture of censure and praise. "the verse of chaucer," he wrote, "i confess, is not harmonious to us. they who lived with him, and some time after him, thought it musical; and it continues so, even in our judgment, if compared with the numbers of lydgate and gower, his contemporaries: there is a rude sweetness of a scotch tune in it, which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect." at the same time, it is no doubt necessary, in order to verify the correctness of a less balanced judgment, to take the trouble, which, if it could but be believed, is by no means great, to master the rules and usages of chaucerian versification. these rules and usages the present is not a fit occasion for seeking to explain. (it may, however, be stated that they only partially connect themselves with chaucer's use of forms which are now obsolete--more especially of inflexions of verbs and substantives (including several instances of the famous final e), and contractions with the negative ne and other monosyllabic words ending in a vowel, of the initial syllables of words beginning with vowels or with the letter h. these and other variations from later usage in spelling and pronunciation--such as the occurrence of an e (sometimes sounded and sometimes not) at the end of words in which it is now no longer retained, and again the frequent accentuation of many words of french origin in their last syllable, as in french, and of certain words of english origin analogously--are to be looked for as a matter of course in a last writing in the period of our language in which chaucer lived. he clearly foresaw the difficulties which would be caused to his readers by the variations of usage in spelling and pronunciation--variations to some extent rendered inevitable by the fact that he wrote in an english dialect which was only gradually coming to be accepted as the uniform language of english writers. towards the close of his "troilus and cressid," he thus addresses his "little book," in fear of the mangling it might undergo from scriveners who might blunder in the copying of its words, or from reciters who might maltreat its verse in the distribution of the accents:-- and, since there is so great diversity in english, and in writing of our tongue, i pray to god that none may miswrite thee nor thee mismetre, for default of tongue, and wheresoe'er thou mayst be read or sung, that thou be understood, god i beseech. but in his versification he likewise adopted certain other practices which had no such origin or reason as those already referred to. among them were the addition, at the end of a line of five accents, of an unaccented syllable; and the substitution, for the first foot of a line either of four or of five accents, of a single syllable. these deviations from a stricter system of versification he doubtless permitted to himself, partly for the sake of variety, and partly for that of convenience; but neither of them is peculiar to himself, or of supreme importance for the effect of his verse. in fact, he seems to allow as much in a passage of his "house of fame," a poem written, it should, however, be observed, in an easy-going form of verse (the line of four accents) which in his later period chaucer seems with this exception to have invariably discarded. he here beseeches apollo to make his rhyme somewhat agreeable, though some verse fail in a syllable. but another of his usages--the misunderstanding of which has more than anything else caused his art as a writer of verse to be misjudged--seems to have been due to a very different cause. to understand the real nature of the usage in question it is only necessary to seize the principle of chaucer's rhythm. of this principle it was well said many years ago by a most competent authority--mr. r. horne--that, it is "inseparable from a full or fair exercise of the genius of our language in versification." for though this usage in its full freedom was gradually again lost to our poetry for a time, yet it was in a large measure recovered by shakspere and the later dramatists of our great age, and has since been never altogether abandoned again--not even by the correct writers of the augustan period--till by the favourites of our own times it is resorted to with a perhaps excessive liberality. it consists simply in slurring over certain final syllables--not eliding them or contracting them with the syllables following upon them, but passing over them lightly, so that, without being inaudible, they may at the same time not interfere with the rhythm or beat of the verse. this usage, by adding to the variety, incontestably adds to the flexibility and beauty of chaucer's versification.) with regard to the most important of them is it not too much to say that instinct and experience will very speedily combine to indicate to an intelligent reader where the poet has resorted to it. without intelligence on the part of the reader, the beautiful harmonies of mr. tennyson's later verse remain obscure; so that, taken in this way the most musical of english verse may seem as difficult to read as the most rugged; but in the former case the lesson is learnt not to be lost again, in the latter the tumbling is ever beginning anew, as with the rock of sisyphus. there is nothing that can fairly be called rugged in the verse of chaucer. and fortunately there are not many pages in this poet's works devoid of lines or passages the music of which cannot escape any ear, however unaccustomed it may be to his diction and versification. what is the nature of the art at whose bidding ten monosyllables arrange themselves into a line of the exquisite cadence of the following:-- and she was fair, as is the rose in may? nor would it be easy to find lines surpassing in their melancholy charm chaucer's version of the lament of medea, when deserted by jason,--a passage which makes the reader neglectful of the english poet's modest hint that the letter of the colchian princess may be found at full length in ovid. the lines shall be quoted verbatim, though not literatim; and perhaps no better example, and none more readily appreciable by a modern ear, could be given than the fourth of them of the harmonious effect of chaucer's usage of slurring, referred to above:-- why liked thee my yellow hair to see more than the boundes of mine honesty? why liked me thy youth and thy fairness and of thy tongue the infinite graciousness? o, had'st thou in thy conquest dead y-bee(n), full myckle untruth had there died with thee. qualities and powers such as the above, have belonged to poets of very various times and countries before and after chaucer. but in addition to these he most assuredly possessed others, which are not usual among the poets of our nation, and which, whencesoever they had come to him personally, had not, before they made their appearance in him, seemed indigenous to the english soil. it would indeed be easy to misrepresent the history of english poetry, during the period which chaucer's advent may be said to have closed, by ascribing to it a uniformly solemn and serious, or even dark and gloomy, character. such a description would not apply to the poetry of the period before the norman conquest, though, in truth, little room could be left for the play of fancy or wit in the hammered-out war-song, or in the long-drawn scriptural paraphrase. nor was it likely that a contagious gaiety should find an opportunity of manifesting itself in the course of the versification of grave historical chronicles, or in the tranquil objective reproduction of the endless traditions of british legend. of the popular songs belonging to the period after the norman conquest, the remains which furnish us with direct or indirect evidence concerning them hardly enable us to form an opinion. but we know that (the cavilling spirit of chaucer's burlesque "rhyme of sir thopas" notwithstanding) the efforts of english metrical romance in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were neither few nor feeble, although these romances were chiefly translations, sometimes abridgments to boot--even the arthurian cycle having been only imported across the channel, though it may have thus come back to its original home. there is some animation in at least one famous chronicle in verse, dating from about the close of the thirteenth century; there is real spirit in the war-songs of minot in the middle of the fourteenth; and from about its beginnings dates a satire full of broad fun concerning the jolly life led by the monks. but none of these works or of those contemporary with them show that innate lightness and buoyancy of tone, which seems to add wings to the art of poetry. nowhere had the english mind found so real an opportunity of poetic utterance in the days of chaucer's own youth as in langland's unique work, national in its allegorical form and in its alliterative metre; and nowhere had this utterance been more stern and severe. no sooner, however, has chaucer made his appearance as a poet, than he seems to show what mistress's badge he wears, which party of the two that have at most times divided among them a national literature and its representatives he intends to follow. the burden of his song is "si douce est la marguerite:" he has learnt the ways of french gallantry as if to the manner born, and thus becomes, as it were without hesitation or effort, the first english love-poet. nor--though in the course of his career his range of themes, his command of materials, and his choice of forms are widely enlarged--is the gay banner under which he has ranged himself ever deserted by him. with the exception of the "house of fame," there is not one of his longer poems of which the passion of love, under one or another of its aspects, does not either constitute the main subject or (as in the "canterbury tales") furnish the greater part of the contents. it is as a love-poet that gower thinks of chaucer when paying a tribute to him in his own verse; it is to the attacks made upon him in his character as a love-poet, and to his consciousness of what he has achieved as such, that he gives expression in the "prologue" to the "legend of good women," where his fair advocate tells the god of love:-- the man hath served you of his cunning, and furthered well your law in his writing, all be it that he cannot well indite, yet hath he made unlearned folk delight to serve you in praising of your name. and so he resumes his favourite theme once more, to tell, as the "man of law" says, "of lovers up and down, more than ovid makes mention of in his old 'epistles.'" this fact alone--that our first great english poet was also our first english love-poet, properly so called--would have sufficed to transform our poetic literature through his agency. what, however, calls for special notice, in connexion with chaucer's special poetic quality of gaiety and brightness, is the preference which he exhibits for treating the joyous aspects of this many-sided passion. apart from the "legend of good women," which is specially designed to give brilliant examples of the faithfulness of women under circumstances of trial, pain, and grief, and from two or three of the "canterbury tales," he dwells with consistent preference on the bright side of love, though remaining a stranger to its divine radiance, which shines forth so fully upon us out of the pages of spenser. thus, in the "assembly of fowls" all is gaiety and mirth, as indeed beseems the genial neighbourhood of cupid's temple. again, in "troilus and cressid," the earlier and cheerful part of the love-story is that which he developes with unmistakeable sympathy and enjoyment, and in his hands this part of the poem becomes one of the most charming poetic narratives of the birth and growth of young love, which our literature possesses--a soft and sweet counterpart to the consuming heat of marlowe's unrivalled "hero and leander." with troilus it was love at first sight--with cressid a passion of very gradual growth. but so full of nature is the narrative of this growth, that one is irresistibly reminded at more than one point of the inimitable creations of the great modern master in the description of women's love. is there not a touch of gretchen in cressid, retiring into her chamber to ponder over the first revelation to her of the love of troilus?-- cressid arose, no longer there she stayed, but straight into her closet went anon, and set her down, as still as any stone, and every word gan up and down to wind, that he had said, as it came to her mind. and is there not a touch of clarchen in her--though with a difference--when from her casement she blushingly beholds her lover riding past in triumph: so like a man of armes and a knight he was to see, filled full of high prowess, for both he had a body, and a might to do that thing, as well as hardiness; and eke to see him in his gear him dress, so fresh, so young, so wieldly seemed he, it truly was a heaven him for to see. his helm was hewn about in twenty places, that by a tissue hung his back behind, his shield was dashed with strokes of swords and maces in which men mighte many an arrow find that pierced had the horn and nerve and rind; and aye the people cried: "here comes our joy, and, next his brother, holder up of troy." even in the very "book of the duchess," the widowed lover describes the maiden charms of his lost wife with so lively a freshness as almost to make one forget that it is a lost wife whose praises are being recorded. the vivacity and joyousness of chaucer's poetic temperament, however, show themselves in various other ways besides his favourite manner of treating a favourite theme. they enhance the spirit of his passages of dialogue, and add force and freshness to his passages of description. they make him amusingly impatient of epical lengths, abrupt in his transitions, and anxious, with an anxiety usually manifested by readers rather than by writers, to come to the point, "to the great effect," as he is wont to call it. "men," he says, "may overlade a ship or barge, and therefore i will skip at once to the effect, and let all the rest slip." and he unconsciously suggests a striking difference between himself and the great elizabethan epic poet who owes so much to him, when he declines to make as long a tale of the chaff or of the straw as of the corn, and to describe all the details of a marriage-feast seriatim: the fruit of every tale is for to say: they eat and drink, and dance and sing and play. this may be the fruit; but epic poets, from homer downwards, have been generally in the habit of not neglecting the foliage. spenser in particular has that impartial copiousness which we think it our duty to admire in the ionic epos, but which, if the truth were told, has prevented generations of englishmen from acquiring an intimate personal acquaintance with the "fairy queen." with chaucer the danger certainly rather lay in an opposite direction. most assuredly he can tell a story with admirable point and precision, when he wishes to do so. perhaps no better example of his skill in this respect could be cited than the "manciple's tale," with its rapid narrative, its major and minor catastrophe, and its concise moral ending thus:-- my son, beware, and be no author new of tidings, whether they be false or true; whereso thou comest, among high or low, keep well thy tongue, and think upon the crow. at the same time, his frequently recurring announcements of his desire to be brief have the effect of making his narrative appear to halt, and thus unfortunately defeat their own purpose. an example of this may be found in the "knight's tale," a narrative poem of which, in contrast with its beauties, a want of evenness is one of the chief defects. it is not that the desire to suppress redundancies is a tendency deserving anything but commendation in any writer, whether great or small; but rather, that the art of concealing art had not yet dawned upon chaucer. and yet, few writers of any time have taken a more evident pleasure in the process of literary production, and have more visibly overflowed with sympathy for, or antipathy against, the characters of their own creation. great novelists of our own age have often told their readers, in prefaces to their fictions or in quasi-confidential comments upon them, of the intimacy in which they have lived with the offspring of their own brain, to them far from shadowy beings. but only the naivete of chaucer's literary age, together with the vivacity of his manner of thought and writing, could place him in so close a personal relation towards the personages and the incidents of his poems. he is overcome by "pity and ruth" as he reads of suffering, and his eyes "wax foul and sore" as he prepares to tell of its infliction. he compassionates "love's servants" as if he were their own "brother dear;" and into his adaptation of the eventful story of constance (the "man of law's tale") he introduces apostrophe upon apostrophe, to the defenceless condition of his heroine--to her relentless enemy the sultana, and to satan, who ever makes his instrument of women "when he will beguile"--to the drunken messenger who allowed the letter carried by him to be stolen from him,--and to the treacherous queen-mother who caused them to be stolen. indeed, in addressing the last-named personage, the poet seems to lose all control over himself. o domegild, i have no english digne unto thy malice and thy tyranny: and therefore to the fiend i thee resign, let him at length tell of thy treachery. fye, mannish, fye!--oh nay, by god, i lie; fye fiendish spirit, for i dare well tell, though thou here walk, thy spirit is in hell. at the opening of the "legend of ariadne" he bids minos redden with shame; and towards its close, when narrating how theseus sailed away, leaving his true-love behind, he expresses a hope that the wind may drive the traitor "a twenty devil way." nor does this vivacity find a less amusing expression in so trifling a touch as that in the "clerk's tale," where the domestic sent to deprive griseldis of her boy becomes, eo ipso as it were, "this ugly sergeant." closely allied to chaucer's liveliness and gaiety of disposition, and in part springing from them, are his keen sense of the ridiculous and the power of satire which he has at his command. his humour has many varieties, ranging from the refined and half-melancholy irony of the "house of fame" to the ready wit of the sagacious uncle of cressid, the burlesque fun of the inimitable "nun's priest's tale," and the very gross salt of the "reeve," the "miller," and one or two others. the springs of humour often capriciously refuse to allow themselves to be discovered; nor is the satire of which the direct intention is transparent invariably the most effective species of satire. concerning, however, chaucer's use of the power which he in so large a measure possessed, viz. that of covering with ridicule the palpable vices or weaknesses of the classes or kinds of men represented by some of his character-types, one assertion may be made with tolerable safety. whatever may have been the first stimulus and the ultimate scope of the wit and humour which he here expended, they are not to be explained as moral indignation in disguise. and in truth chaucer's merriment flows spontaneously from a source very near the surface; he is so extremely diverting, because he is so extremely diverted himself. herein, too, lies the harmlessness of chaucer's fun. its harmlessness, to wit, for those who are able to read him in something like the spirit in which he wrote--never a very easy achievement with regard to any author, and one which the beginner and the young had better be advised to abstain from attempting with chaucer in the overflow of his more or less unrestrained moods. at all events, the excuse of gaiety of heart--the plea of that vieil esprit gaulois which is so often, and very rarely without need, invoked in an exculpatory capacity by modern french criticism--is the best defence ever made for chaucer's laughable irregularities, either by his apologists or by himself. "men should not," he says, and says very truly, "make earnest of game." but when he audaciously defends himself against the charge of impropriety by declaring that he must tell stories in character, and coolly requests any person who may find anything in one of his tales objectionable to turn to another:-- for he shall find enough, both great and small of storial thing that toucheth gentleness, likewise morality and holiness; blame ye not me, if ye should choose amiss-- we are constrained to shake our heads at the transparent sophistry of the plea, which requires no exposure. for chaucer knew very well how to give life and colour to his page without recklessly disregarding bounds the neglect of which was even in his day offensive to many besides the "precious folk" of whom he half derisively pretends to stand in awe. in one instance he defeated his own purpose; for the so-called "cook's tale of gamelyn" was substituted by some earlier editor for the original "cook's tale," which has thus in its completed form become a rarity removed beyond the reach of even the most ardent of curiosity hunters. fortunately, however, chaucer spoke the truth when he said that from this point of view he had written very differently at different times; no whiter pages remain than many of his. but the realism of chaucer is something more than exuberant love of fun and light-hearted gaiety. he is the first great painter of character, because he is the first great observer of it among modern european writers. his power of comic observation need not be dwelt upon again, after the illustrations of it which have been incidentally furnished in these pages. more especially with regard to the manners and ways of women, which often, while seeming so natural to women themselves, appear so odd to male observers, chaucer's eye was ever on the alert. but his works likewise contain passages displaying a penetrating insight into the minds of men, as well as a keen eye for their manners, together with a power of generalising, which, when kept within due bonds, lies at the root of the wise knowledge of humankind so admirable to us in our great essayists, from bacon to addison and his modern successors. how truly, for instance, in "troilus and cressid," chaucer observes on the enthusiastic belief of converts, the "strongest-faithed" of men, as he understands! and how fine is the saying as to the suspiciousness characteristic of lewd, (i.e. ignorant,) people, that to things which are made more subtly than they can in their lewdness comprehend, they gladly give the worst interpretation which suggests itself! how appositely the "canon's yeoman" describes the arrogance of those who are too clever by half; "when a man has an over-great wit," he says, "it very often chances to him to misuse it"! and with how ripe a wisdom, combined with ethics of true gentleness, the honest "franklin," at the opening of his "tale," discourses on the uses and the beauty of long-suffering:-- for one thing, sires, safely dare i say, that friends the one the other must obey, if they will longe holde company. love will not be constrained by mastery. when mastery comes, the god of love anon beateth his wings--and, farewell! he is gone. love is a thing as any spirit free. women desire, by nature, liberty, and not to be constrained as a thrall, and so do men, if i the truth say shall. look, who that is most patient in love, he is at his advantage all above. a virtue high is patience, certain, because it vanquisheth, as clerks explain, things to which rigour never could attain. for every word men should not chide and plain; learn ye to suffer, or else, so may i go, ye shall it learn, whether ye will or no. for in this world certain no wight there is who neither doth nor saith some time amiss. sickness or ire, or constellation, wine, woe, or changing of complexion, causeth full oft to do amiss or speak. for every wrong men may not vengeance wreak: after a time there must be temperance with every wight that knows self-governance. it was by virtue of his power of observing and drawing character, above all, that chaucer became the true predecessor of two several growths in our literature, in both of which characterisation forms a most important element,--it might perhaps be truly said, the element which surpasses all others in importance. from this point of view the dramatic poets of the elizabethan age remain unequalled by any other school or group of dramatists, and the english novelists of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries by the representatives of any other development of prose-fiction. in the art of construction, in the invention and the arrangement of incident, these dramatists and novelists may have been left behind by others; in the creation of character they are on the whole without rivals in their respective branches of literature. to the earlier at least of these growths chaucer may be said to have pointed the way. his personages, more especially of course, as has been seen, those who are assembled together in the "prologue" to the "canterbury tales," are not mere phantasms of the brain, or even mere actual possibilities, but real human beings, and types true to the likeness of whole classes of men and women, or to the mould in which all human nature is cast. this is upon the whole the most wonderful, as it is perhaps the most generally recognised of chaucer's gifts. it would not of itself have sufficed to make him a great dramatist, had the drama stood ready for him as a literary form into which to pour the inspirations of his genius, as it afterwards stood ready for our great elizabethans. but to it were added in him that perception of a strong dramatic situation, and that power of finding the right words for it, which have determined the success of many plays, and the absence of which materially detracts from the completeness of the effect of others, high as their merits may be in other respects. how thrilling, for instance, is that rapid passage across the stage, as one might almost call it, of the unhappy dorigen in the "franklin's tale!" the antecedents of the situation, to be sure, are, as has been elsewhere suggested, absurd enough; but who can fail to feel that spasm of anxious sympathy with which a powerful dramatic situation in itself affects us, when the wife, whom for truth's sake her husband has bidden be untrue to him, goes forth on her unholy errand of duty? "whither so fast?" asks the lover: and she made answer, half as she were mad: "unto the garden, as my husband bade, my promise for to keep, alas! alas!" nor, as the abbreviated prose version of the "pardoner's tale" given above will suffice to show, was chaucer deficient in the art of dramatically arranging a story; while he is not excelled by any of our non-dramatic poets in the spirit and movement of his dialogue. the "book of the duchess" and the "house of fame," but more especially "troilus and cressid" and the connecting passages between some of the "canterbury tales," may be referred to in various illustration of this. the vividness of his imagination, which conjures up, so to speak, the very personality of his characters before him, and the contagious force of his pathos, which is as true and as spontaneous as his humour, complete in him the born dramatist. we can see constance as with our own eyes, in the agony of her peril:-- have ye not seen some time a pallid face among a press, of him that hath been led towards his death, where him awaits no grace, and such a colour in his face hath had, men mighte know his face was so bested 'mong all the other faces in that rout? so stands constance, and looketh her about. and perhaps there is no better way of studying the general character of chaucer's pathos, than a comparison of the "monk's tale" from which this passage is taken, and the "clerk's tale," with their originals. in the former, for instance, the prayer of constance, when condemned through domegild's guilt to be cast adrift once more on the waters, her piteous words and tenderness to her little child, as it lies weeping in her arm, and her touching leave-taking from the land of the husband who has condemned her,--all these are chaucer's own. so also are parts of one of the most affecting passages in the "clerk's tale"--griseldis' farewell to her daughter. but it is as unnecessary to lay a finger upon lines and passages illustrating chaucer's pathos, as upon others illustrating his humour. thus, then, chaucer was a born dramatist; but fate willed it, that the branch of our literature which might probably have of all been the best suited to his genius was not to spring into life till he and several generations after him had passed away. to be sure, during the fourteenth century, the so-called miracle-plays flourished abundantly in england, and were, as there is every reason to believe, already largely performed by the trading-companies of london and the towns. the allusions in chaucer to these beginnings of our english drama are, however, remarkably scanty. the "wife of bath" mentions plays of miracles among the other occasions of religious sensation haunted by her, clad in her gay scarlet gown,--including vigils, processions, preaching, pilgrimages, and marriages. and the jolly parish-clerk of the "miller's tale," we are informed, at times, in order to show his lightness and his skill, played "herod on a scaffold high"--thus, by the bye, emulating the parish clerks of london, who are known to have been among the performers of miracles in the middle ages. the allusion to pilate's voice in the "miller's prologue," and that in the "tale" to the sorrow of noah with his fellowship that he had ere he got his wife to ship, seem likewise dramatic reminiscences; and the occurrence of these three allusions in a single "tale" and its "prologue" would incline one to think that chaucer had recently amused himself at one of these performances. but plays are not mentioned among the entertainments enumerated at the opening of the "pardoner's tale"; and it would in any case have been unlikely that chaucer should have paid much attention to diversions which were long chiefly "visited" by the classes with which he could have no personal connexion, and even at a much later date were dissociated in men's minds from poetry and literature. had he ever written anything remotely partaking of the nature of a dramatic piece, it could at the most have been the words of the songs in some congratulatory royal pageant such as lydgate probably wrote on the return of henry v after agincourt; though there is not the least reason for supposing chaucer to have taken so much interest in the "ridings" through the city which occupied many a morning of the idle apprentice of the "cook's tale," perkyn revellour. it is perhaps more surprising to find chaucer, who was a reader of several latin poets, and who had heard of more, both latin and greek, show no knowledge whatever of the ancient classical drama, with which he may accordingly be fairly concluded to have been wholly unacquainted. to one further aspect of chaucer's realism as a poet reference has already been made; but a final mention of it may most appropriately conclude this sketch of his poetical characteristics. his descriptions of nature are as true as his sketches of human character; and incidental touches in him reveal his love of the one as unmistakeably as his unflagging interest in the study of the other. even these may-morning exordia, in which he was but following a fashion--faithfully observed both by the french trouveres and by the english romances translated from their productions, and not forgotten by the author of the earlier part of the "roman de la rose"--always come from his hands with the freshness of natural truth. they cannot be called original in conception, and it would be difficult to point out in them anything strikingly original in execution; yet they cannot be included among those matter-of-course notices of morning and evening, sunrise and sunset, to which so many poets have accustomed us since (be it said with reverence) homer himself. in chaucer these passages make his page "as fresh as is the month of may." when he went forth on these april and may mornings, it was not solely with the intent of composing a roundelay or a marguerite; but we may be well assured, he allowed the song of the little birds, the perfume of the flowers, and the fresh verdure of the english landscape, to sink into his very soul. for nowhere does he seem, and nowhere could he have been, more open to the influence which he received into himself, and which in his turn he exercised, and exercises, upon others, than when he was in fresh contact with nature. in this influence lies the secret of his genius; in his poetry there is life. chapter . epilogue. the legacy which chaucer left to our literature was to fructify in the hands of a long succession of heirs; and it may be said, with little fear of contradiction, that at no time has his fame been fresher and his influence upon our poets--and upon our painters as well as our poets--more perceptible than at the present day. when gower first put forth his "confessio amantis," we may assume that chaucer's poetical labours, of the fame of which his brother-poet declared the land to be full, had not yet been crowned by his last and greatest work. as a poet, therefore, gower in one sense owes less to chaucer than did many of their successors; though, on the other hand it may be said with truth that to chaucer is due the fact, that gower (whose earlier productions were in french and in latin) ever became a poet at all. the "confessio amantis" is no book for all times like the "canterbury tales"; but the conjoined names of chaucer and gower added strength to one another in the eyes of the generations ensuing, little anxious as these generations were to distinguish which of the pair was really the first to it "garnish our english rude" with the flowers of a new poetic diction and art of verse. the lancaster period of our history had its days of national glory as well as of national humiliation, and indisputably, as a whole, advanced the growth of the nation towards political manhood. but it brought with it no golden summer to fulfil the promises of the spring-tide of our modern poetical literature. the two poets whose names stand forth from the barren after-season of the earlier half of the fifteenth century, were, both of them, according to their own profession, disciples of chaucer. in truth, however, occleve, the only name-worthy poetical writer of the reign of henry iv, seems to have been less akin as an author to chaucer than to gower, while his principal poem manifestly was, in an even greater degree than the "confessio amantis," a severely learned or, as its author terms it, unbuxom book. lydgate, on the other hand, the famous monk of bury, has in him something of the spirit as well as of the manner of chaucer, under whose advice he is said to have composed one of his principal poems. though a monk, he was no stay-at-home or do-nothing; like him of the "canterbury tales," we may suppose lydgate to have scorned the maxim that a monk out of his cloister is like a fish out of water; and doubtless many days which he could spare from the instruction of youth at st. edmund's bury were spent about the london streets, of the sights and sounds of which he has left us so vivacious a record--a kind of farcical supplement to the "prologue" of the "canterbury tales." his literary career, part of which certainly belongs to the reign of henry v, has some resemblance to chaucer's, though it is less regular and less consistent with itself; and several of his poems bear more or less distinct traces of chaucer's influence. the "troy-book" is not founded on "troilus and cressid," though it is derived from the sources which had fed the original of chaucer's poem; but the "temple of glass" seems to have been an imitation of the "house of fame"; and the "story of thebes" is actually introduced by its author as an additional "canterbury tale," and challenges comparison with the rest of the series into which it asks admittance. both occleve and lydgate enjoyed the patronage of a prince of genius descended from the house, with whose founder chaucer was so closely connected--humphrey, duke of gloucester. meanwhile, the sovereign of a neighbouring kingdom was in all probability himself the agent who established the influence of chaucer as predominant in the literature of his native land. the long though honourable captivity in england of king james i of scotland--the best poet among kings and the best king among poets, as he has been antithetically called--was consoled by the study of the "hymns" of his "dear masters, chaucer and gower," for the happiness of whose souls he prays at the close of his poem, "the king's quair." that most charming of love-allegories, in which the scottish king sings the story of his captivity and of his deliverance by the sweet messenger of love, not only closely imitates chaucer in detail, more especially at its opening, but is pervaded by his spirit. many subsequent scottish poets imitated chaucer, and some of them loyally acknowledged their debts to him. gawin douglas in his "palace of honour," and henryson in his "testament of cressid" and elsewhere, are followers of the southern master. the wise and brave sir david lyndsay was familiar with his writings; and he was not only occasionally imitated, but praised with enthusiastic eloquence by william dunbar, that "darling of the scottish muses," whose poetical merits sir walter scott, from some points of view, can hardly be said to have exaggerated, when declaring him to have been "justly raised to a level with chaucer by every judge of poetry, to whom his obsolete language has not rendered him unintelligble." dunbar knew that this scottish language was but a form of that which, as he declared, chaucer had made to "surmount every terrestrial tongue, as far as midnight is surmounted by a may morning." meanwhile, in england, the influence of chaucer continued to live even during the dreary interval which separates from one another two important epochs of our literary history. now, as in the days of the norman kings, ballads orally transmitted were the people's poetry; and one of these popular ballads carried the story of "patient grissel" into regions where chaucer's name was probably unknown. when, after the close of the troubled season of the roses, our poetic literature showed the first signs of a revival, they consisted in a return to the old masters of the fourteenth century. the poetry of hawes, the learned author of the crabbed "pastime of pleasure," exhibits an undeniable continuity with that of chaucer, gower, and lydgate, to which triad he devotes a chapter of panegyric. hawes, however, presses into the service of his allegory not only all the virtues and all the vices, whom from habit we can tolerate in such productions, but also astronomy, geometry, arithmetic, and the rest of the seven daughters of doctrine, whom we cannot; and is altogether inferior to the least of his models. it is at the same time to his credit that he seems painfully aware of his inability to cope with either chaucer or lydgate as to vigour of invention. there is in truth, more of the dramatic spirit of chaucer in barklay's "ship of fools," which, though essentially a translation, achieved in england the popularity of an original work. for this poem, like the "canterbury tales," introduces into its admirable framework a variety of lifelike sketches of character and manners; it has in it that dramatic element which is so chaucerian a characteristic. but the aim of its author was didactic, which chaucer's had never been. when with the poems of surrey and wyatt, and with the first attempts in the direction of the regular drama, the opening of the second great age in our literature approached, and when, about half a century afterwards, that age actually opened with an unequalled burst of varied productivity, it would seem as if chaucer's influence might naturally enough have passed away, or at least become obscured. such was not, however, the case, and chaucer survived into the age of the english renascence as an established english classic, in which capacity caxton had honoured him by twice issuing an edition of his works from the westminster printing-press. henry viii's favourite, the reckless but pithy satirist, skelton, was alive to the merits of his great predecessor, and skelton's patron, william thynne, a royal official, busied himself with editing chaucer's works. the loyal servant of queen mary, the wise and witty john heywood, from whose "interludes" the step is so short to the first regular english comedy, in one of these pieces freely plagiarised a passage in the "canterbury tales." tottel, the printer of the favourite poetic "miscellany" published shortly before queen elizabeth's accession, included in his collection the beautiful lines, cited above, called "good counsel of chaucer." and when, at last, the elizabethan era properly so-called began, the proof was speedily given that geniuses worthy of holding fellowship with chaucer had assimilated into their own literary growth what was congruous to it in his, just as he had assimilated to himself--not always improving, but hardly ever merely borrowing or taking over--much that he had found in the french trouveres, and in italian poetry and prose. the first work which can be included in the great period of elizabethan literature is the "shepherd's calendar," where spenser is still in a partly imitative stage; and it is chaucer whom he imitates and extols in his poem, and whom his alter ego, the mysterious "e.k.," extols in preface and notes. the longest of the passages in which reference is made by spenser to chaucer, under the pseudonym of tityrus, is more especially noteworthy, both as showing the veneration of the younger for the older poet, and as testifying to the growing popularity of chaucer at the time when spenser wrote. the same great poet's debt to his revered predecessor in the "daphnaida" has been already mentioned. the "fairy queen" is the masterpiece of an original mind, and its supreme poetic quality is a lofty magnificence upon the whole foreign to chaucer's genius; but spenser owed something more than his archaic forms to "tityrus," with whose style he had erst disclaimed all ambition to match his pastoral pipe. in a well-known passage of his great epos he declares that it is through sweet infusion of the older poet's own spirit that he, the younger, follows the footing of his feet, in order so the rather to meet with his meaning. it was this, the romantic spirit proper, which spenser sought to catch from chaucer, but which, like all those who consciously seek after it, he transmuted into a new quality and a new power. with spenser the change was into something mightier and loftier. he would, we cannot doubt, readily have echoed the judgment of his friend and brother-poet concerning chaucer. "i know not," writes sir philip sidney, "whether to marvel more, either that he in that misty time could see so clearly, or that we, in this clear age, walk so stumblingly after him. yet had he," adds sidney with the generosity of a true critic, who is not lost in wonder at his own cleverness in discovering defects, "great wants, fit to be forgiven in so reverent an antiquity." and yet a third elizabethan, michael drayton, pure of tone and high of purpose, joins his voice to those of spenser and sidney, hailing in the "noble chaucer" --the first of those that ever brake into the muses' treasure and first spake in weighty numbers, and placing gower, with a degree of judgment not reached by his and chaucer's immediate successors, in his proper relation of poetic rank to his younger but greater contemporary. to these names should be added that of george puttenham--if he was indeed the author of the grave and elaborate treatise, dedicated to lord burghley, on "the art of english poesy." in this work mention is repeatedly made of chaucer, "father of our english poets;" and his learning, and "the natural of his pleasant wit," are alike judiciously commanded. one of puttenham's best qualities as a critic is that he never speaks without his book; and he comes very near to discovering chaucer's greatest gift when noticing his excellence in "prosopographia," a term which to chaucer would perhaps have seemed to require translation. at the obsoleteness of chaucer's own diction this critic, who writes entirely "for the better brought-up sort," is obliged to shake his learned head. enough has been said in the preceding pages to support the opinion that among the wants which fell to the lot of chaucer as a poet, perhaps the greatest (though sidney would never have allowed this), was the want of poetic form most in harmony with his most characteristic gifts. the influence of chaucer upon the dramatists of the elizabethan age was probably rather indirect and general than direct and personal; but indications or illustrations of it may be traced in a considerable number of these writers, including perhaps among the earliest richard edwards as the author of a non-extant tragedy, "palamon and arcite," and among the latest the author--or authors--of "the two noble kinsmen." besides fletcher and shakspere, greene, nash and middleton, and more especially jonson (as both poet and grammarian), were acquainted with chaucer's writings; so that it is perhaps rather a proof of the widespread popularity of the "canterbury tales" than the reverse, that they were not largely resorted to for materials by the elizabethan and jacobean dramatists. under charles i "troilus and cressid" found a translator in sir francis kynaston, whom cartwright congratulated on having made it possible "that we read chaucer now without a dictionary." a personage however, in cartwright's best known play, the antiquary moth, prefers to talk on his own account "genuine" chaucerian english. to pursue the further traces of the influence of chaucer through such a literary aftergrowth as the younger fletchers, into the early poems of milton, would be beyond the purpose of the present essay. in the treasure-house of that great poet's mind were gathered memories and associations innumerable, though the sublimest flights of his genius soared aloft into regions whither the imagination of none of our earlier poets had preceded them. on the other hand, the days have passed for attention to be spared for the treatment experienced by chaucer in the augustan age, to which he was a barbarian only to be tolerated if put into the court-dress of the final period of civilisation. still, even thus, he was not left altogether unread; nor was he in all cases adapted without a certain measure of success. the irrepressible vigour, and the frequent felicity, of dryden's "fables" contrast advantageously with the tame evenness of the "temple of fame," an early effort by pope, who had wit enough to imitate in a juvenile parody some of the grossest peculiarities of chaucer's manner, but who would have been quite ashamed to reproduce him in a serious literary performance, without the inevitable polish and cadence of his own style of verse. later modernisations--even of those which a band of poets in some instances singularly qualified for the task put forth in a collection published in the year , and which, on the part of some of them at least, was the result of conscientious endeavour--it is needless to characterise here. slight incidental use has been made of some of these in this essay, the author of which would gladly have abstained from printing a single modernised phrase or word--most of all any which he has himself been guilty of re-casting. the time cannot be far distant when even the least unsuccessful of such attempts will no longer be accepted, because no such attempts whatever will be any longer required. no englishman or englishwoman need go through a very long or very laborious apprenticeship in order to become able to read, understand, and enjoy what chaucer himself wrote. but if this apprenticeship be too hard, then some sort of makeshift must be accepted, or antiquity must remain the "canker-worm" even of a great national poet, as spenser said it had already in his day proved to be of chaucer. meanwhile, since our poetic literature has long thrown off the shackles which forced it to adhere to one particular group of models, he is not a true english poet who should remain uninfluenced by any of the really great among his predecessors. if chaucer has again, in a special sense, become the "master dear and father reverent" of some of our living poets, in a wider sense he must hold this relation to them all and to all their successors, so long as he continues to be known and understood. as it is, there are few worthies of our literature whose names seem to awaken throughout the english-speaking world a readier sentiment of familiar regard; and in new england, where the earliest great poet of old england is cherished not less warmly than among ourselves, a kindly cunning had thus limned his likeness:-- an old man in a lodge within a park; the chamber walls depicted all around with portraiture of huntsman, hawk and hound, and the hurt deer. he listeneth to the lark, whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark of painted glass in leaden lattice bound; he listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, then writeth in a book like any clerk. he is the poet of the dawn, who wrote the canterbury tales, and his old age made beautiful with song; and as i read i hear the crowing cock, i hear the note of lark and linnet, and from every page rise odours of ploughed field or flowery mead. glossary. bencite = benedicite. clepe, call. deem, judge. despitous, angry to excess. digne, fit;--disdainful. frere, friar. gentle, well-born. keep, care. languor, grief. meinie, following, household. meet, mate (?), measure (?). overthwart, across. parage, rank, degree. press, crowd. rede, advise, counsel. reeve, steward, bailiff. ruth, pity. scall, scab. shapely, fit. sithe, time. spiced, nice, scrupulous. targe, target, shield. y prefix of past participle as in, y-bee = bee(n). while, time; to quite his while, to reward his pains. wieldy, active. wone, custom, habit. index. "a.b.c." ("la priere de notre dame"). "adam" (chaucer's scrivener). "african." albert of brescia. "alcestis." "alchemist" (ben jonson). aldgate. alfred, king. anne, queen. "antiquary moth" (cartwright). "ariadne." aristophanes. "art of english poesy" (puttenham). "arviragus." "assembly of fowls or parliament of birds." astrology. bailly, master harry. see "host." "ballad of sir thopas." "ballad sent to king richard." balle, john. balzac. barklay. benedictines. berkeley, sir edward. berners, lady juliana. bible, chaucer's knowledge of. black friars. black prince. blake, william. blanche, duchess of lancaster. boccaccio. boethius. bohemia. "book of consolation and counsel" (albert of brescia). "book of the duchess." "book of the leo." brembre, sir nicholas. bretigny, peace of. brigham, nicholas. "bukton." burley, sir john. burns, robert. byron. cambridge. "canace." "canon yeoman's tale." the "canon's yeoman." "the canon." canterbury. canterbury pilgrims. "canterbury tales," chaucer's greatest work. conjecture as to the composition of. references to in prologue to "legend of good women." characters in. framework of. what is chaucer's obligation to boccaccio. popular style of. language of. sources of. chaucer's method of dealing with his originals. the two prose tales. reference to the condition of the poor. woman in the. supposed reference to gower. lydgate's supplements to. vogue of the, with elizabethan and jacobean dramatists. "carpenter." cartwright. caxton. "ceyx and alcyone," the tale of. charles iv, emperor. charles v, king of france. chaucer, agnes (chaucer's mother). "chaucer's dream." chaucer, geoffrey, difficulties as to his biography. the date of his birth. his name. his ancestry. conjecture as to his early years. enters prince lionel's household. accompanies the prince to france and is taken prisoner. becomes valet of the chamber of king edward. his marriage. translation of "roman de la rose." promoted to the post of royal squire. "book of the duchess." missions abroad. receives grant from the crown of daily pitcher of wine. appointed comptroller of the customs in the port of london. permitted to execute the duties by deputy. granted pension of ten pounds for life. visits to the continent. appointed to the comptrollership of the petty customs in london. sits in parliament. "house of fame" written. "troilus and cressid." "assembly of fowls." translation of the "consolation of philosophy." "legend of good women." loses his comptrollerships. appointed clerk of king richard's works. money difficulties. death of his wife. "on the astrolabe." his son. robbed by highwaymen. granted pension of twenty pounds by king richard. "ballade sent to king richard." "envoy to scogan." "complaint of chaucer to his purse." his pension doubled. death. the "canterbury tales" left unfinished. chaucer, characteristics of. his personal appearance. his modesty. self-containedness. contained faith. his attitude to women. his ideal of the true gentleman. his opinion about drunkenness. his reading. french influences. italian influences. language. his love of nature. his literary development. his mediaevalism. chaucer's england, its population. the black death. london. national spirit. trade. decline of the feudal system. condition of the people. the language. chivalry. extravagance in dress. the "church." the clergy. learning. the life of the nation. chaucer's literary heirs. chaucer's poetry, its power to please. music of his verse. as a love poet. his joyousness. his humour. as an interpreter of character. his dramatic qualities. his receptiveness. chaucer's times. his feeling towards the lower classes. his attitude to the church. as an interpreter of his age. chaucer, john (chaucer's father). chaucer, lewis (chaucer's son). chaucer, philippa (chaucer's wife). chaucer, richard le. chaucer, thomas (chaucer's supposed son). chettle. chivalry. clarence, lionel duke of. cleopatra. "clerk's tale." the "clerk." colonna, guido de. "complaint of chaucer to his purse." "complaint of mars." "complaint of the death of pity." "complaint of the ploughman." "complaint of venus." "confessio amantis" (gower). congreve. "consolation of philosophy" (boethius). constance, duchess of lancaster. "constance," the story of. "cook's tale." the "cook." court of love. "cressid." "cuckoo and the nightingale." dante. "daphnaida" (spenser). dartmouth. "decamerone" (boccaccio). deschamps, eustace. dickens. dido. "divine comedy." "doctor of physic." dominicans. don quixote. "dorigen." doglas, gawin. drama in the fourteenth century. drayton, michael. dryden. dunbar. "dunciad." "dyer." "e.k." "earthly paradise" (william morris). edward iii. edwards, richard. elizabethan drama. english novel. "envoy to bukton." "envoy to scogan." "fables" (dryden). "fairy queen" (spenser). filostrato (boccaccio). flanders. fletcher. florence. "flower and the leaf." france and england. francis of assisi. franciscans. "franklin's tale." the "franklin." french literary influences. "friar's tale." the "friar." froissart. genoa. german criticism. gerson. gisors, henry. gloucester, humphrey duke of. gloucester, thomas duke of. goethe. goldsmith. "good counsel of chaucer." gower. great schism. greene. grey friars. grisseldis, the tale of. hallam. hatcham, surrey. hawes. hawkwood, sir john. henry iii. henry iv. henry v. henryson. heptameron. "hero and leander" (marlowe). herrick. heyroom, thomas. heywood, john. homer. horne, mr. r. "host," the (master harry bailly). "house of fame." hugh of lincoln, legend of. "imitation of christ." inner temple. inquisition. "interludes" (heywood). italian literary influence. james i, king of scotland. jason. john, king of england. john, king of bohemia. john of gaunt, duke of lancaster. john of trevisa. jonson, ben. katharine, duchess of lancaster. kent, county of. "king's quair, the." "knight's tale." the "knight." kynaston, sir francis. lamb, charles. "lamech." lancaster, house of. lancaster, henry, duke of. langland. "legend of ariadne." "legend of good women." "legend of the saints of cupid." leland. "lieutenant bardolph." "life of saint cecelia." "limitour." lollardry. london. longfellow. lorris, guillaume de. "love of palamon and arcite." lydgate. lyndsay, sir david. machault. madame eglantine. see "prioress." "man of law's tale." the "man of law." "manciple's tale." the "manciple." marlowe. marot, clement. mary magdalene, homily on. medea. mendicant orders. "merchant's tale." the "merchant." "merry wives of windsor." metrical romances of thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. meung, jean de. middleton. "midsummer night's dream." milan. "miller's tale." the "miller." milton. minorities. minot, lawrence. miracle plays. monastic orders. "monk's tale." the "monk." "mort d'arthure." nash. nicholas, sir harris. norwich, bishop of. "nun's priest's tale." occleve. "on perpetual virginity" (st. jerome). "on the astrolabe." "oratio gallfridi chaucer." ovid. oxford. padua. "palace of honour" (gawin douglas). "palamon and arcite." tragedy by r. edwards. "pandarus." "pardoner's tale." the "pardoner." paris. university of. parliament. "parson's tale." the "parson." "pastime of pleasure" (hawes). patient grissel. "patient grissel" (play). peasant insurrection. pedro, don. "pentamerone." "perkyn revellour." pestilences in fourteenth century. petrarch. "phantasus." philippa, queen. "phillis." philpot, john. "ploughman." pole, william de la. pope. "praise of women." prayer of chaucer." "prioress" (madame eglantine). "prologue to the canterbury tales." puttenham, george. "queen anelida and the false arcite." "reeve's tale." the "reeve." reformation, the. renascence. "rhyme of sir thopas." richard ii. richardson. roet, sir paon de. "roman de la rose." "romaunt of the rose" (translation by chaucer of "roman de la rose"). rome, church of. ronsard. "rosa anglia." sainte-maur, benoit. st. jerome. salisbury, countess of. "scipio." scogan, henry. scottish heirs of chaucer. "second nun's tale." seneca. "seven wise masters." shakspere. "shepherd's calendar." sheridan. "ship of fools." "shipman." sidney, sir philip. "sir thomas norray" (dunbar). skelton. southern road. speght. spenser. "squire's tale." the "squire." statute of provisors. "story of thebes." strode, ralph. sudbury, archbishop. suffolk, michael de la pole, earl of. "summoner." surrey. swynford, sir hugh. tabard inn. "tale of meliboeus." "tarquin." "temple of fame" (pope). "temple of glass" (lydgate). "teseide" (boccaccio). "testament of cressid" (henryson). "thisbe." thynne, william. tieck, ludwig. "tityrus." tombstone, chaucer's. "tottel's miscellany." "troilus and cressid." "troy-book" (lydgate). "tullius." "two noble kinsmen." tyrwhitt. ugolino, story of. ulster, elizabeth countess of. universities. virgil. visconti, bernardo. "vision concerning piers plowman." "vows of the heron." "vox clamantis" (gower). "webbe." westminster. "wife of bath's tale." the "wife of bath." william of wykeham. "words unto his own scrivener." wordsworth. wyatt. wyclif. wycliffism: was chaucer a wycliffite? yerdely, adam.