THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN
OR, THE LEGENDARY OF
CUPID’S SAINTS*

Prologue

	A thousand times have I heard people tell
	That there is joy in heaven and grief in hell,
	And I agree that that may well be so;
	But all the same, there’s something else I know:
	There’s no one living in this land, I say,
	Who’s been to hell or heaven and come away,
	Or knows a thing except that he could quote
	From something someone said, or even wrote!
	No man can prove it by an actual test.
10	Yet God forbid! Men may the truth attest
	Of many things without the proof of eye.
	For people shouldn’t think a thing a lie
	Because no person saw it long ago.
	A thing is just as real, and not less so,
	Although it can’t be seen by every man.
	Some things, by God! escaped Saint Bernard’s scan!*
	And so it is to books, in which we find
	Those ancient things remaining in the mind,
	And to their teaching in an antique style,
20	That we must give belief, and to the guile
	With which they tell their well-attested stories
	Of holiness, and realms, and triumph’s glories,
	Of love, of hate, of other subjects too,
	Which at the moment I shan’t list for you.
	If ancient books were lost or ceased to be,
	Then lost would be the key of memory.
	So we should trust to what the old books say:
	To prove the truth, there is no other way.
	And as for me, although my wit is small,
30	I find that books most happily enthral;
	That I so reverence them in my heart,
	So trust their truth, so pleasure in their art,
	That there is scarce a single joy I know
	That can persuade me from my books to go,
	Except, perhaps, upon a holy day,
	Or else in the ecstatic time of May,
	When all the little birds begin to sing,
	And flowers start to blossom and to spring.
	Farewell my study while the spring days last!
40	Now as for spring, my liking is so cast
	That, of all the meadow flowers in sight,
	I most adore those flowers red and white
	Which men call daisies in the region round.
	To them I’m so affectionately bound,
	As I declared before, in time of May,
	That when I lie in bed there dawns no day
	But has me up and walking on the lawn
	To see these flowers spread towards the dawn
	When sunrise brings the light with brilliant sheen,
50	The livelong day thus walking on the green.
	And when the sun goes down towards the west,
	It draws its petals in and shuts in rest
	Until the morrow brings the morning light,
	So greatly frightened is it of the night.
	This daisy, of all lovely blooms the flower,
	Replete with virtue, honour’s pretty dower,
	And constant in its beauty and its hue,
	Alike in winter as in summer new,
	Its praises, if I could, I would distil;
60	But sad to say, it is beyond my skill!
	For men before my time, I can be sworn,
	Have reaped the fields and carried off the corn;
	And I come after, gleaning here and there,
	And am delighted if I find an ear,
	A graceful word that they have left behind.
	And if I chance to echo in my mind
	What they sang freshly in authentic song,
	I trust they will not think I’ve done them wrong,
	Since what I write is done to praise the power
70	Of those who erstwhile served the leaf or flower.*
	For be assured, I do not undertake
	To attack the flower for the green leaf’s sake,
	Nor yet to set the flower against the leaf:
	As if I’d set the corn against the sheaf!
	I give sole love, or am averse, to neither;
	I’m not specifically attached to either.
	Who serves the flower or leaf I do not know.
	That’s not the purpose of my present throe,
	Which is concerned with quite another span:
80	That of old tales, before such strife began.
	The reason that I advocate belief
	In ancient books and reverence them in chief
	Is this: men should believe authorities
	Since in all other tests no firm proof lies.
	I mean, before I leave you for elsewhere,
	The naked text in English to declare
	Of tales or exploits ancient authors told.
	Believe them if you will: they’re very old!

The ‘F’ text, in which Chaucer at first appears to favour the Flower against the Leaf, has this lovely passage instead of ll.69 – 80 above:

	… Since what I write is honour to the power
	Of love, and in true service of the flower
	Whom I shall serve while I have wit or might.
	She is the brightness and the perfect light
	That in this dark world shows, and steers my course.
	The heart within my sad breast with such force
	Respects and loves you that of my true wit
	You are the mistress: I guide none of it.
	My words and deeds are so in your command
	That, as a harp obeys the player’s hand,
	And sings according to its fingering,
	So from my heart-strings you can always bring
	What voice you please, to laugh or to complain.
	Be ever my guide and Lady Sovereign!
	To you as to my earthly god I cry
	Both in this poem and when my woes I sigh.
*
	When it was towards the very end of May,
90	And I had wandered all a summer’s day
	That verdant meadow that I told you of
	The new-sprung daisies to admire with love,
	And when the sun had sunk from south to west,
	And shut up was the flower, and gone to rest
	At gloom of night, at which she felt such dread.
	Then homeward to my house I quickly sped;
	And in a little arbour I possess,
	New-benched with fresh-cut turves for tidiness,
	I had my servants dress my couch for night;
100	To celebrate the summer’s fresh delight,
	I bade them scatter flowers on my bed.
	When I had covered up my eyes and head,
	I fell asleep within an hour or two.
	I dreamed that I was on that lawn anew
	And that I wandered in the selfsame way
	To see the daisy as you’ve heard me say.
	And all that lawn, it seemed to me, was fair,
	With pretty flowers embroidered everywhere.
	One speaks of gum’s, or herb’s, or tree’s fine scent:
110	To no comparison would I consent.
	Its perfume outdid other scents by far;*
	In beauty it surpassed all flowers that are.
	The earth had quite forgotten winter’s dread,
	Which stripped him naked, leaving him for dead,
	And with his icy sword struck him with grief.
	To that the temperate sun now brought relief
	And freshly clothed the earth in green again.
	The little birds, in early summer’s vein,
	At least those who’d survived the noose and net,
120	Sang out defiance of him who’d so beset
	Them all in winter, killing off their brood,
	The cruel fowler, for it did them good
	To sing of him, and in their song revile
	The filthy churl who with his cunning guile
	And avarice had tricked them wickedly.
	This was their song: ‘The fowler we defy!’
	And on the branches some birds sang out clear
	Their love songs, which were pure delight to hear,
	Each one in praise and honour of a mate,
130	And blissful summer’s start to celebrate*
	Upon the branches fluttering aloft
	In their delight among the blossoms soft.
131	They trilled out, ‘Blessed be Saint Valentine!*
	For on his day I choose you to be mine,
	Which I shall not repent, my own heart’s sweet!’
	With that their beaks came gently in to meet,
	Conveying honour and humble salutations,
	And after that they had such celebrations
	As are appropriate to love and nature,
	And are performed indeed by every creature.
	To hear their singing I was most intent
140	Because I dreamed I knew just what they meant.
	Presently a lark sang out above.
	‘I see,’ she sang, ‘the mighty God of Love.
	Look where he comes! I see his wings outspread.’
	And then I looked along the flowery mead
	And watched him pacing, leading forth a queen
	Attired in royal array, and all in green.
	And on her hair she wore a golden net,
	On top of which a crown of white was set
	With many flowers. It’s true what I write down:
150	For all the world, as daisies have a crown
	Made up of many small white petals bright,
	So she too had a crown of flowery white.
	Of one piece only was this crown of white,
	A single eastern pearl unflawed and bright,
	Which made the white crown up above the green
	Exactly like a daisy in its sheen,
	Considering the golden net above.
	The garments of this mighty God of Love
	Were silk, adorned all over with green boughs;
160	He had a rose-leaf garland on his brows,
	Which held a host of lily-flowers in place.
	I could not see the expression on his face
	Because his countenance shone out so bright
	Its gleaming brilliance amazed the sight;
	A furlong off, he dazzled still my eye.
	But in his hands at length I did espy
	Two fiery darts, like coals both glowing red,
	And angel-like his glowing wings he spread.
	The God of Love is blind, or so men say,
170	But I thought he could see well every way,
	Because he fixed on me the sternest look,
	Which when I saw, my heart turned cold and shook.
	And by the hand he held that noble queen,
	Who wore a crown of white and robes of green,
	And was so womanly, benign and meek
	That though you travelled all this world to seek,
	Not half her beauty would you ever find
	In any creature of a natural kind.
	And she was called Alcestis,* bright and fair;
180	I pray God may she prosper everywhere!
	For if she’d not been present with her balm,
	Then doubtless I’d have died in sheer alarm,
	Helpless before his words and fierce look,
	As I shall tell you later in my book.
	Behind the God of Love, upon that green,
	Some ladies I observed, in all nineteen,*
	Walking in royal robes with gentle tread,
	And such a host of womankind they led,
	I could not think that there had ever been
190	A third or fourth of those who now were seen
	In all this wide created world since God
	Constructed Adam from the earthly sod.
	And every one of them was true in love.
	Whatever wonder this was token of,
	The very moment that there came in sight
	That flower I call the daisy fair and bright,
	They suddenly all stopped instinctively
	And went down on their knees most purposefully.
	And then they all danced gently in a ring
200	Around this flower. I watched them dance and sing
	In manner of a carole, and I heard
	Their ballad and shall tell you every word:
	Hide, Absalom, thy tresses gold and clear,*
	And Esther, lay thy gentle meekness down,
	And Jonathan, conceal thy friendly cheer;
	Penelope, and Marcia, Cato’s own,
	Make of your wifehood no comparison;
	Isolde, Helen, hide your beauties’ light:
	Alcestis here bedims your lustre bright.
210	Thy lovely body, let it not appear,
	Lavinia; thou, Lucrece of Roman town;
	Polyxena, who bought thy love so dear;
	Thou, Cleopatra, nobly passionate one;
	Hide all your faithful loves and your renown;
	And Thisbe, whom love brought such pain and fright:
	Alcestis here bedims your lustre bright.
	Hero and Dido, Laodamia dear,
	And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophon,
	Thou Canacee, whose woes in thee appear;
220	Hypsipyle, betrayed by Aeson’s son,
	Boast not your faith in love, make no proud moan;
	Ariadne, Hypermnestra, bear your plight:
	Alcestis here bedims your lustre bright.
	The singing of this ballad being done,
	By order in a circle every one
	Of all those ladies gentle and serene
	Sat down upon the grass so soft and green.
	First sat the God of Love, and next, this queen
	Attired in crown of white and robes of green,
230	Then in due order others by degree
	Of noble rank were seated courteously;
	And not a word was spoken in that place
	Within the radius of a furlong’s space.
	Upon a grassy slope close by I waited
	To learn what these fine people contemplated,
	As still as any stone, until at last
	The God of Love his eyes upon me cast
	And then demanded, ‘Who’s that over there?’
	Which when I heard, I gave him answer fair,
240	Saying, ‘My lord, it’s I,’ and going near,
	Saluted him. ‘What are you doing here,’
	He asked, ‘so bold and in my presence now?
	For it were better a worm should come, I vow,
	Before my eyes than you, I’d have you know.’
	‘If you please, my lord,’ said I, ‘why so?’
	‘Because,’ said he, ‘you’re quite incapable.
	My servants are all wise and honourable,
	But you’re among my deadly enemies,
	And lie about my former devotees,
250	Misrepresenting them in your translation,
	And stopping folk from making dedication
	Of service to me. While to trust to me,
	You can’t deny, you say is lunacy.
	To put it plainly, everybody knows
	That by translating The Romance of the Rose,
	Which is all heresy* against my law,
	You’ve made wise people from my rule withdraw.
	Your mind and reason, being somewhat cool,
	Reckon a person is a perfect fool
260	Who loves intensely with a burning fire.
	By that I see you’re doddering in desire
	Like ancient fools with failing spirits, who blame
	The rest and don’t know what is wrong with them.
	Have you not put in English too the book
	Of Troilus, whom Cressida forsook,
	Thus demonstrating women’s perfidy?
	But all the same, this question answer me:
	Why won’t you write of women’s uprightness
	Now that you’ve written of their wickedness?
270	Was there no good material in your mind?
	In all your books could you not somewhere find
	A tale of women who were good and true?
	By God, yes, sixty volumes old and new
	Do you possess, all full of stories great
	That Roman poets, and Greek as well, relate
	Of various women, what sorts of life they had;
	And ever a hundred good against one bad.
	This God knows well, and so do scholars too
	Who seek such histories, and find them true.
280	What say Valerius,* Livy,* Claudian?
	What says Jerome against Jovinian?*
	How pure were virgins and how true were wives,
	How constant too were widows all their lives,
	Jerome recounts, and not of just a few –
	More like a hundred, that would be my view.
	It’s pitiful and makes the spirit sore
	To read the woes which for their faith they bore,
	For to their loves they were so wholly true
	That rather than take on a lover new
290	They chose to die in various horrid ways,
	And ended as each separate story says.
	For some were burnt, some had their windpipes slit,
	Some drowned because no sin would they commit;
	But every one retained her maidenhead,
	Or widow’s vow, or troth with which she wed.
	They did it not for love of holiness,
	But love of purity and righteousness,
	Lest men should mark them with a vicious blot;
	Yet all of them were heathens, all the lot,
300	Who were so fearful of incurring shame.
	These bygone women so preserved their name
	That in this world I think you will not find
	A single man who’d be as true and kind
	As lowliest woman at that early date.
	What does Ovid’s famed Epistle* state
	Of faithful wives and all their doings, pray?
	Or in History’s Mirror, Vincent of Beauvais?*
	All authors, Christians and pagans too,
	The wide world over, write of such for you.
310	It doesn’t need all day to put you right.
	But yet what’s wrong with you, that when you write,
	You give the chaff of stories, not the corn?
	By sainted Venus, from whom I was born,
	Although you have renounced my law and creed,
	As other old fools often have, take heed!
	You shall repent, as shall be widely seen!’
	At once up spoke Alcestis, noblest queen,
	Saying, ‘God, the dues you owe to courtesy
	Require you to attend to his reply
320	On all these points that you have put to him.
	A god should not appear so cross and grim,
	But should be stable in his deity,
	With justice and true magnanimity.
	His anger rightfully he cannot wreak
	Until he’s heard the other party speak.
	Not all is true that you have heard complained;
	The God of Love hears many a tale that’s feigned.
	For in your court is many a flatterer,
	And many a strange accusing tattler,
330	Who in your ears will drum some ugly thing,
	Born of hate or jealous imagining,
	Just to enjoy with you some dalliance.
	Envy – I pray God deal her all ill-chance! –
	Is laundress in the royal court, I say,
	For she will never leave, by night or day,
	The house of Caesar. Dante made it plain:
	Whoever leaves, the laundress will remain.
	Perhaps this man has wrongly been accused,
	So that in justice he should be excused.
340	Or else, my lord, the man is so precise
	He makes translations with no thought of vice,
	Just versifying what in books is there,
	Of subject matter hardly being aware.
	And so The Rose and Cressida he wrote
	In innocence, of harm not taking note.
	Or he was forced that pair of books to choose
	By somebody, and did not dare refuse;
	For he has written many books ere this.
	He has not done as grievously amiss
350	In rendering new what ancient poets penned,
	As if with malice and with foul intent
	He’d written poems himself in Love’s despite.
	That’s how a lord should think who cares for right,
	And not be like the Lords of Lombardy,*
	Who rule by wilful fit and tyranny.
	For one who’s naturally a lord or king
	Should not be cruel and given to bullying
	As is the excise-man, who does what harm he can;
	But knowing his duty, he should treat the man
360	As liegeman, since he owes that loyalty
	To all his people, and benignity,
	And should attend to all their pleas with care,
	Complaints, petitions, every law affair
	When it’s put up, for judgement in due course.
	For this rule, Aristotle* is the source:
	It is the duty of a king to make
	And keep good law for every liegeman’s sake.
	Good kings have sworn to that their deepest vow
	For many hundred winters up till now;
370	Sworn too to keep their aristocracy,
	As it is right and wise that they should be
	Enhanced and honoured, given favours dear,
	For they are half-gods in this world down here.
	For rich and poor alike this law is meant,
	Although their state of life is different.
	For poor folk everyone should feel compassion;
	See how the lion behaves in gentle fashion!
	For when a fly annoys or stings him, he
	Wafts it away with tail quite easily;
380	His noble sentiments are set so high
	He won’t avenge himself upon a fly
	As would a cur or beast of low-born taint.*
	A lordly spirit ought to show restraint
	And weigh up each event in equity
	With due regard for noble dignity.
	For Sire, it shows no prowess in a lord
	To damn a man who’s not allowed a word
	In his defence. That is a foul abuse;
	And even if he offers no excuse,
390	But pleads for mercy with a grieving heart,
	And begs you. kneeling to you in his shirt,
	To give your judgement as you deem it fit.
	A god should briefly then consider it,
	Weighing his honour and the person’s crime.
	And since there is no cause for death this time,
	You shouldn’t find it hard to show some grace:
	Dismiss your rage and show a kindly face.
	The man has served you with his poet’s skill;
	Your love-laws he has helped you to fulfil.
400	When he was young he propped up your estate;
	I don’t know if he’s now a runagate.
	But I know well, the things that he can write
	Persuade unlearned folk to take delight
	In serving you and honouring your name.
	He wrote the book that’s called The House of Fame,
	The book of Blanche the Duchess’ death no less,
	The Parliament of Birds too, as I guess,
	Arcite and Palamon of Thebes’s love,*
	A story very few have knowledge of,
410	And many hymns to you for holy days
	As well, called ballads, roundels, virelays.*
	Of other products of industriousness,
	He has in prose translated Boethius,
	The Miserable Engendering of Mankind,
	Which in Pope Innocent the Third you find,
	And Saint Cecilia’s life with all its woe;
	And he translated, long long years ago,
	Origen’s homily on the Magdalen.*
	He now deserves less punishment and pain,
420	Because he’s written so many a lovely thing.
	Now, as you are a god and mighty king,
	I, your Alcestis, sometime Queen of Thrace,
	Ask on this man’s behalf that in pure grace
	You’ll never do him harm in any way;
	And he shall swear to you without delay
	Never to be at fault as you describe;
	And he shall write, as you should now prescribe,
	Of women who loved truly all their lives,
	What kind you will, of virgins, widows, wives,
430	To advance your cause, not smirch it, as in those
	Stories he wrote of Cressida and the Rose.’
	The God of Love made answer straight away:
	‘My Lady, it is many and many a day
	Since first I found you charitable and true,
	So clearly so that since the world was new
	I never found a better one than you.
	And so to keep my state with honour due,
	I will not, cannot, frown on your request.
	He’s yours, to do with him as you think best.
440	You may forgive, without a moment’s pause,
	For if you make a gift, or bless his cause,
	And do it quickly, you’ll be thanked the more.
	Give judgement then what he must do therefore.
	Go thank my Lady now!’ he said to me.
	I rose, then settled down upon my knee
	And humbly said, ‘My Lady, God above
	Repay you, since you’ve made the God of Love
	Remove his anger from me and forgive!
	Now grant with grace that I may so long live
450	As to be sure what person you may be,
	Who helped me thus and put such trust in me.
	Yet truly I believe that in this case
	I have no guilt, and did Love no disgrace,
	Because an honest man, I firmly plead,
	Takes no part in a robber’s wicked deed.
	And no true lover ought to give me blame
	Because I speak a faithless lover’s shame.
	They rather ought to give me their support
	Because of Cressida I wrote the thought
460	My author had, as also of The Rose.
	It was my wish completely, as God knows,
	To further faith in love and cherish it,
	And warn against betrayal and deceit
	With my examples; that was what I meant.’*
	And she replied, ‘Stop all that argument,
	For Love won’t have such plea and counter-plea
	Of right and wrong; take that at once from me!
	You’ve won your favour; closely hold thereto.
	Now I will say what penance you must do
470	For your misdeed. Attend my judgement here:
	During your lifetime, you shall year by year
	Spend most part of your time in writing stories
	Extolling all the legendary glories
	Of virtuous women – virgins, honest wives –
	Who kept their faith in loving all their lives;
	And tell of traitors who were false to them
	And made of all their lives a stratagem
	To see how many women they could shame:
	For in your world that’s counted as a game.
480	Though love is not the thing on which you’re bent,*
	Speak well of it: that is your punishment.
	And to the God of Love I shall so pray
	That he shall charge his men in every way
	To help you on, your labour to repay.
	Your penance is but light; now go your way!’
	The God of Love then smiled at that and said,
	‘Can you tell me, is she wife or maid,
	Or queen or countess? Of what rank is she
	Who gave you penance of such small degree,
490	When you deserved more painfully to smart?
	But pity quickly flows in gentle heart.
	You can see that; she makes known who she is.’
	And I replied, ‘No, lord. May I have bliss,
	But all I know of her is that she’s good.’
	‘That story’s true all right, and by my hood,’
	Said Love, ‘If you’ve a notion to be wise,
	You’d better know it well, that’s my advice.
	Do you not have the book, in your big chest,
	Of Queen Alcestis, full of virtues blest,
500	Who changed into a daisy, the day’s eye,*
	Who took her husband’s place and chose to die,
	And so instead of him to go to hell;
	Whom Hercules brought out from there to dwell
	On earth again, by God, and live in bliss?’
	And I replied to him and answered, ‘Yes,
	I recognize her now. And is this sshe,
	The daisy Alcestis, heart’s felicity?
	I deeply feel the goodness of this wife,
	Who after death, as well as in her life,
510	Redoubled her renown with her largess.
	She well repays the love that I profess
	For her own flower. Small wonder that high Jove
	Should set her as a star in heaven above
	For all her virtues, as writes Agathon.*
	Her white crown proves the fact to everyone;
	For just as many virtues does she own
	As there are little flowers in her crown.
	In honour of her, to keep her memory,
	The daisy flower was made by Cybele,*
520	As men may see, with white crown on her head,
	To which Mars gave, by God, a touch of red
	Instead of rubies, set amongst the white.’
	At this, the Queen in shyness blushed a mite
	At being praised so highly to her face.
	Said Love then, ‘Negligence has brought disgrace
	On you for writing of inconstancy
	In women, since you know their purity
	By proof, as well as truth in old tales borne.
	Ignore the chaff and celebrate the corn.
530	Tell Alcestis’ story, I suggest;
	Leave Cressida alone to sleep and rest.
	For of Alcestis should your writing be;
	Perfection’s calendar, you know, is she.
	She taught what perfect love should always do,
	And chiefly what in wifely love is due,
	With all the limits that a wife should keep.
	Till now your tiny wit was fast asleep.
	But now I order you, upon your life,
	To write the legend of this perfect wife,
540	First writing others of a lesser brand;
	And now farewell! For that’s my last command.
	At Cleopatra you should now begin,
	And go from there; that way my love you’ll win.’
	With that, I awoke from sleep to shining day,
	And started on my Legend straight away.

I
The Legend of Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, Martyr

580	After the death of Ptolemy the King,*
	Who had all Egypt in his governing,
	His consort Cleopatra reigned as queen
	Until it chanced, as history has seen,
	That out of Rome a senator was sent
	To conquer kingdoms and win settlement
	Of honour for Rome, it being their practice then
	To win the fealty of all earthly men,
	And truth to tell, Mark Antony was his name.
	It happened Fortune owed him grievous shame
590	So that he fell from high prosperity,
	A rebel to the Roman polity.
	And worse dishonour, Caesar’s sister fair
	He falsely abandoned, she being unaware,
	And wanted at all costs another wife;
	Thus he with Rome and Caesar fell to strife.
	Yet all the same in truth this senator
	Was valiant and a noble warrior
	Whose death was a most dolorous event.
	The love that filled him was so vehement,
600	He was so trapped in snares, in passion hurled,
	By love for Cleopatra that the world
	He valued not at all. Indeed it seemed
	The only thing his moral sense esteemed
	Was serving Cleopatra with his love.
	Regardless of his life, in war he strove
	To make defence of her and of her rights.
	This noble queen adored this best of knights
	For his deserving and his chivalry;
	And certainly, unless the histories lie,
610	He was in person and in worthiness,
	Discretion, courage and illustriousness,
	Of noble living men the nonpareil;
	And she was lovely as a rose in May.
	And since things said are best in shortest measure,
	She married him and had him at her pleasure.
	For me, whose undertaking is to tell
	So many stories and to tell them well,
	Reporting of the wedding and the feast
	Would take too long; when I should most, not least,
620	Report affairs of great effect and charge;
	For men may overload a ship or barge.
	So straight to the effect I now shall skip,
	And all the minor things I shall let slip.
	Octavian,* being furious at this deed,
	Amassed an army which he meant to lead
	To Antony’s destruction utterly.
	With Romans lion-cruel and hardy, he
	Took ship, and thus I leave them as they sail.
	Antony, aware, determined not to fail
630	To meet the Romans, could he find a way,
	Made plans, and then he and his wife one day,
	Delaying no longer, massed their mighty host,
	Took ship with them and sailed along the coast,
	And there the two fleets met.* With trumpet blasts
	The shouts and firing starts, while each side casts
	To get the sun behind its own attack.
	The missile flies with fearful din and crack;
	The fleets together grind in fierce clash
	And down come balls of stone in crushing crash.
640	In goes the grapnel with its clutching crooks,
	And, raking ropes and sheets, go shearing-hooks.
	A fellow fetches blows with battle-axe
	At one who round the mast flees the attacks,
	Then out again, and heaves him overboard.
	One stabs with spear, and one with point of sword;
	One tears the sail with hooks as if with scythe.
	One brings a cup and bids his mates be blithe,
	Pours peas to make the hatches slippery,
	Takes quicklime too to blind the enemy;
650	And thus the dragged-out day of fight they spend,
	Till at the last, as all things have their end,
	Mark Antony takes flight, a beaten man,
	And all his forces flee as best they can.
	The Queen flies too with all her purple sail
	Before the blows, which beat as thick as hail;
	No wonder! It was far too much to bear.
	When Antony saw that misfortune there,
	‘Alas the day that I was born!’ he said,
	‘From this day forth my honour’s lost and dead!’
660	Despair unhinged his mind upon that word,
	And through his noble heart he thrust his sword
	Before he’d gone a footstep from the place.
	His wife, who could not win from Caesar grace,
	To Egypt fled in terror and distress.
	Now listen, men who speak of tenderness,
	Fellows who falsely promise, swearing blind
	They’ll die if their beloved proves unkind,
	Just hear what sort of truth woman can show!
	This wretched Cleopatra felt such woe
670	No tongue on earth could tell her mighty sorrow.
	She did not pause, but swiftly on the morrow
	Told subtle craftsmen to erect a shrine
	With all the rubies and the jewels fine
	In Egypt of which they could find supplies,
	And filled the shrine with various kinds of spice
	Which to embalm the body would combine,
	Then fetched the corpse and shut it in the shrine.
	And next the shrine she had dug out a grave,
	And all the serpents that she chanced to have
680	She had put in that grave, and then she said,
	‘Now Love, whom my lamenting heart obeyed
	So utterly that from that blissful time
	I freely swore to keep your rule sublime –
	Or Antony’s, I mean, my noble knight –
	I’d never waking, morning, noon or night
	Allow you from my feeling, thinking heart,
	For weal or woe, or song or dance, to part!
	I swore then to myself that, weal or woe,
	Exactly as you did, then I would so,
690	As fully as my powers could sustain,
	Provided that my wifehood got no stain –
	Yes, whether it would bring me life or death –
	A covenant which, while I can draw breath,
	I shall fulfil: and it shall well be seen,
	There never was to love a truer queen.’
	Full-hearted thus, she leapt into the pit*
	Naked among the snakes that dwelt in it,
	Desiring there to have her burial.
	The serpents came to sting her one and all,
700	And she received her death with joyful cheer
	For love of Antony, to her so dear.
	I tell the truth, this is no yarn or fable.
	Until I find a man so true and stable,
	Who will for love his death so freely take,
	I pray to God our heads may never ache! AMEN

II
The Legend of Babylonian Thisbe: Martyr

	Once upon a time in Babylon
	Where Queen Semiramis* had had the town
	Surrounded with a moat and walled about –
	High walls with splendid well-baked tiles, no doubt –
710	There were residing in the noble town
	Two princely lords of excellent renown,
	Who lived so near each other on a green
	That nothing but a stone wall lay between,
	Of city boundaries the usual one.
	And truth to tell, the one lord had a son,
	In all that land one of the manliest.
	The other had a daughter, loveliest
	Of all those eastward dwelling in the place.
	The name of each grew in the other’s grace
720	Through gossips from the neighbourhood about,
	For in that foreign land, without a doubt,
	Virgins were strictly kept with jealousy
	Lest they committed some loose levity.
	The youthful bachelor’s name was Pyramus,
	The girl’s was Thisbe, Ovid tells it thus.
	Their reputations by report so throve
	That as they grew in age they grew in love.
	And truly, since their ages tallied quite,
	Marriage between them would have been just right,
730	But that neither father would assent;
	Yet both so burned with passion violent,
	No friend of theirs could mitigate its force.
	And secretly their true love took its course
	And both of them expressed their strong desire.
	‘Cover the coal, and hotter grows the fire.’
	And ‘Ten times madder is forbidden love.’
	A crack from top to base foundation clove
	The wall which stood between these lovers two:
	It had been so of old since it was new.
740	So narrow was this fissure in the wall,
	So tiny, it could scarce be seen at all.
	But is there anything Love can’t espy?
	These two young lovers – and I do not lie –
	Were first to find that narrow little cleft.
	And with a sound as soft as any shrift,
	Their words of love were whispered through the wall,
	And as they stood there, they went over all
	Their sad lament of love, and all their woe,
	Whenever it was safe to whisper so.
750	Upon the one side of the wall stood he,
	And on the other side stood fair Thisbe,
	Each there the other’s sweet words to receive.
	And in this way their guardian they’d deceive,
	And every day that ancient wall they’d threaten,
	And wish to God that it could be down beaten.
	Thus would they speak, ‘Alas, you wicked wall!
	Your spiteful envy robs us of our all.
	Why don’t you cleave apart or break in two?
	Or at the least, if that won’t pleasure you,
760	You might just once allow us two to meet,
	Just once to have the bliss of kissing sweet.
	We’d then be cured of all our fatal woe.
	But yet it is to you that we both owe
	A debt because you suffer all the time
	Our words to travel through your stone and lime;
	And so we should be satisfied with you.’
	And when their useless words were spoken through,
	They’d kiss that cold unyielding wall of stone
	And take their leave, and then they would be gone.
770	And this was chiefly in the eventide
	Or early morning, lest it be espied.
	They did the same a long time, till at length,
	One day when Phoebus* brightly shone in strength –
	Aurora* with her kindling morning gleams
	Had dried the wet grass soaked in dewy streams –
	Beside the crack as they were wont to do,
	First Pyramus arrived, then Thisbe too,
	And pledged their word with utmost faith that they
	Would both of them that evening steal away,
780	Deceiving all their guardians as they went,
	And leave the city, after which they meant,
	The country fields being spacious, broad and wide,
	At an appointed time to meet outside
	At one fixed place, which they agreed should be
	At Ninus’* kingly tomb beneath a tree –
	For those who worshipped idols, so I’ve heard,
	The pagans, used in fields to be interred –
	And by this mausoleum was a well.
	The covenant between them – and I tell
790	The story briefly – was compacted fast.
	So long the sunshine seemed to them to last,
	The sun would never set beneath the ocean.
	This Thisbe loved with such intense emotion,
	And longed so much her Pyramus to see
	That, when she saw that it was time to flee,
	She stole away at night-time from her place
	Disguised, a wimple covering her face.
	To keep her promise she forsook her friends;
	And it is pitiful that woman tends,
800	Alas! when she is under true love’s spell,
	To trust a man before she knows him well.
	So to the tree she went at speedy pace,
	Love making her determined in this case,
	And then sat down and waited by the well.
	Alas! A lioness most fierce and fell
	Came from the wood at speed without delay,
	Maw dripping blood from slaughtering her prey,
	To drink from the well beside which Thisbe sat.
	As soon as Thisbe was aware of that –
810	The moonlight made her see it fully clear –
	She leapt up, heart benumbed with dread and fear,
	And dashed into a cave in utter fright,
	Dropping her wimple in her headlong flight
	Regardless, being with terror so hard struck,
	And glad that she’d escaped with so much luck.
	She cowered in the darkness, very still,
	And when the lioness had drunk her fill,
	About the well she stalked and prowled around,
	And straight away the maiden’s wimple found,
820	And ripped and tore it in her bloody maw.
	That done, she did not linger any more,
	But to the forest once more took her way,
	At last came Pyramus with some delay,
	For all too long at home, alas! stayed he.