She hath taught me, by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss!
I will cherish thee for this:
POESY! thou sweet'st content
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent!
WITHER.
-From The Shepherd's Hunting.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER,
Born 1340 ?-died 1400.
Flee from the press and dwell with soothfastness!
Suffice thee thy good though it be small!
For hoarding hath hate, and climbing tickleness;
Press hath envỳ, and weal is blent over all.
Savour no more than thee behovè shall!
Rede well thyself, that other folk canst rede!
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
Painè thee not each crooked to redress,
In trust of her that turneth as a ball!
Great rest standeth in little business :
Beware also to spurn against a nall!
Strive not as doth a crockè with a wall!
Deemè thyself, that deemest other's 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, pilgrim! forth, beast! out of thy stall.
Look up on high, and thankè God of all!
Weivè thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead!
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
THE COMPLAINT OF CHAUCER UNTO HIS EMPTY PURSE.
To you, my Purse! and to none other wight,
Complain I, for ye be my Lady dear :
I am so sorry now that ye be light,
For certes, but ye make me heavy cheer
Me were as lief be laid upon a bier.
For which unto your mercy thus I cry :
Be heavy again, or ellis mote I die!
Now vouchèsafe this day, or yet be night,
That I of you the blissful sound may hear;
Or see your colour, like the sunnè bright,
That of yellowness haddè never peer
Ye be my life, ye be mine heartès stere,
Queen of comfort and of good company :
Be heavy again, or ellis mote I die!
Now, Purse! that be to me my life's light,
And saviour as down in this world here,
Out of this town helpè me through your might,
Since that ye will not be my treasurer !
For I am shave as nigh as any frere.
But I pray you unto your courtesy,
Be heavy again, or ellis mote I die!
The Envoy of Chaucer to the King.
O conqueror of Brutus' Albion !
Which that by line and free election
Been very king, this song to you I send;
And ye that mowen all mine harm amend,
Have mind upon my supplication!
THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES.
Would my good Lady love me best,
And work after my will,
I should ane garment goodliest
Gar mak' her body till.
Of high honour should be her hood
Upon her head to wear,
Garnish'd with governance so good
No deeming should her deir.
Her sark should be, her body next,
Of chastity so white;
With shame and dread together mix'd, The same should be perfyt.
Her kirtle should be of clear constance,
Lasit with lesum love,
The maillies of continuance,
For never to remove.
Her gown should be of goodliness,
Well ribbon'd with renown,
Purfill'd with pleasure in ilk place,
Furred with fine fashion.
Her belt should be of benignity
About her middle meet;
Her mantle of humility,
To thole baith wind and wet.
Her hat should be of fair having,
And her tippet of truth;
Her patelet of good pansing,
Her hats-ribbon of ruth.
Her sleeves should be of esperance,
To keep her from despair;
Her gloves of the good governance,
To hide her fingers fair.
Her shoon should be of sickerness,
In sign that she nought slide;
Her hose of honesty, I guess,
I should for her provide.
Would she put on this garment gay,
I durst swear by my seill,
That she wore never green nor gray
That set her half so weil.
WILLIAM DUNBAR.
1456?-1513-20?
ADVICE TO LOVERS.
If ye would love and lovèd be,
In mind keep well these thingis three,
And sadly in thy breast imprent,—
Be secret, true, and patient!
For he that patience can not leir,
He shall displeasance have perquier,
Though he had all this worldis rent:
Be secret, true, and patiènt!
For who that secret can not be,
Him all good fellowship shall flee,
And credence none shall him be lent:
Be secret, true, and patient!
And he that is of heart untrue,
From he be ken'd, farewell! adieu!
Fie on him! fie! his fame is went :
Be secret, true, and patiènt!
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