[Rawlinson Lyrics] 1300–1350

ANONYMOUS

	Ich am of Irlande
	And of the holy lande Of Irlande.
	Gode sire, pray Ich thee
5	For of saynte charité
	Come and daunce with me
	In Irlande.

ANONYMOUS

	Maiden in the more lay,
	In the more lay,
	Sevenightë fullë and a –
	Sevenightë fulle and a –
5	Maiden in the morë lay,
	In the morë lay,
	Sevenightë fullë and a day.
	Well was hirë mete,
	What was hirë mete?
10	The primerole and the –
	The primerole and the –
	Well was hirë mete,
	What was hirë mete?
	The primerole and the violet.
	Well was hirë dring,
	What was hirë dring?
	The coldë water of the –
	The coldë water of the –
	Well was hirë dring,
20	What was hirë dring?
	The coldë water of the wellë-spring.
	Well was hirë bour,
	What was hirë bour?
	The redë rose and the –
25	The redë rose and the –
	Well was hirë bour,
	What was hirë bour?
	The redë rose and the lilie flour.

ANONYMOUS

	Al night by the rosë, rosë,
	Al night bi the rose I lay,
	Dorst Ich nought the rosë stele,
	And yet I bar the flour away.

(1907)

[Harley Lyrics]

ANONYMOUS

	Bitwenë March and Avëril
	When spray biginneth to springe,
	The litel foul hath hirë wil
	On hyrë lede to synge.
5	Ich live in love-longinge
	For semeliest of allë thynge,
	She may me blissë bringe,
	Ich am in hire baundoun.
	An hendy hap Ichave y-hent,
10	Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
	From allë wommen my love is lent
	And light on Alysoun.
	On hew hire her is fair ynogh,
	Hire browës broune, hire eyen blake,
15	With lufsom chere she on me logh,
	With middel smal and wel y-make.
	But she me wol to hirë take
	For to ben hire owen make,
	Longe to live Ichulle forsake
20	And feyë falle adoun.
	An hendy, etc.
	Nightës when I wende and wake –
	Forthy myn wongës waxen won –
	Lady, al for thinë sake,
25	Longinge is y-lent me on.
	In world nis non so wyter mon
	That al hire bounté tellë con,
	Hire swyre is whitter then the swon,
	And fairest may in toune.
30	An hendy, etc.
	Ich am for wowyng al forwake,
	Wery so water in wore,
	Lest any revë me my make
	Ichave y-yernëd yore.
	35 Beter is tholen while sore
	Then mournen evermore.
	Geynest under gore,
	Herknë to my roun.
	An hendy, etc.

(1792)

ANONYMOUS

	Erthë tok of erthe
	erthë wyth wogh;
	Erthe other erthë
	to the erthë drogh;
5	Erthë leyde erthe
	in erthënë throgh;
	Tho hevëde erthe of erthe
	erthe ynogh.

(1811)

[Grimestone Lyrics] 1350–1400

ANONYMOUS

	Gold and al this worldës wyn
	Is nought but Cristës rode;
	I wolde be clad in Cristës skyn,
	That ran so longe on blode,
5	And gon t’is herte and take myn in –
	Ther is a fulsum fode.
	Than yeve I litel of kith or kyn,
	For ther is allë gode.

ANONYMOUS

	Gloria mundi est:
	Als a se flouwende
	Als a skiye pasende
	Als the sadwe in the undermel
	And als the dore turnet on a quel.

ANONYMOUS

	Love me broughte,
	And love me wroughtë,
	Man, to be thi ferë;
	Love me fedde,
	And love me ledde,
5	And love me lettëd herë.
	Love me slow,
	And love me drow,
	And love me leyde on berë;
10	Love is my pes,
	For love I ches
	Man to byen derë.
	Ne dred thee nought,
	I have thee sought
15	Bothen day and night;
	To haven thee,
	Wel is me,
	I have thee wonne in fight.

ANONYMOUS [The Dragon Speaks]*

	‘I wille you allë swalewë withouten any bot;
	But some wille I save, and some wille I not.’

GEOFFREY CHAUCER from The Parliament of Fowls

[Catalogue of the Birds]

	Whan I was come ayeyn into the place
	That I of spak, that was so sote and grene,
	Forth welk I tho myselven to solace.
	Tho was I war wher that ther sat a queene
5	That, as of lyght the somer sonne shene
	Passeth the sterre, right so over mesure
	She fayrer was than any creature.
	And in a launde, upon an hil of floures,
	Was set this noble goddesse Nature.
10	Of braunches were here halles and here boures
	Iwrought after here cast and here mesure;
	Ne there nas foul that cometh of engendrure
	That they ne were prest in here presence,
	To take hire dom and yeve hire audyence.
15	For this was on seynt Valentynes day,
	Whan every foul cometh there to chese his make,
	Of every kynde that men thynke may,
	And that so huge a noyse gan they make
	That erthe, and eyr, and tre, and every lake
20	So ful was, that unethe was there space
	For me to stonde, so ful was al the place.
	And right as Aleyn, in the Pleynt of Kynde,
	Devyseth Nature of aray and face,
	In swich aray men myghte hire there fynde.
25	This noble emperesse, ful of grace,
	Bad every foul to take his owne place,
	As they were woned alwey fro yer to yeere,
	Seynt Valentynes day, to stonden theere.
	That is to seyn, the foules of ravyne
	Weere hyest set, and thanne the foules smale
	That eten, as hem Nature wolde enclyne,
	As worm or thyng of which I telle no tale;
	And water-foul sat lowest in the dale;
	But foul that lyveth by sed sat on the grene,
35	And that so fele that wonder was to sene.
	There myghte men the royal egle fynde,
	That with his sharpe lok perseth the sonne,
	And othere egles of a lowere kynde,
	Of whiche that clerkes wel devyse conne.
40	Ther was the tiraunt with his fetheres donne
	And grey, I mene the goshauk, that doth pyne
	To bryddes for his outrageous ravyne.
	The gentyl faucoun, that with his feet distrayneth
	The kynges hand; the hardy sperhauk eke,
45	The quayles foo; the merlioun, that payneth
	Hymself ful ofte the larke for to seke;
	There was the douve with hire yën meke;
	The jelous swan, ayens his deth that syngeth;
	The oule ek, that of deth the bode bryngeth;
50	The crane, the geaunt, with his trompes soun;
	The thef, the chough; and ek the janglynge pye;
	The skornynge jay; the eles fo, heroun;
	The false lapwynge, ful of trecherye;
	The stare, that the conseyl can bewrye;
55	The tame ruddok, and the coward kyte;
	The kok, that orloge is of thorpes lyte;
	The sparwe, Venus sone; the nyghtyngale,
	That clepeth forth the grene leves newe;
	The swalwe, mortherere of the foules smale
60	That maken hony of floures freshe of hewe;
	The wedded turtil, with hire herte trewe;
	The pekok, with his aungels fetheres bryghte;
	The fesaunt, skornere of the cok by nyghte;
	The waker goos; the cukkow ever unkynde;
65	The popynjay, ful of delicasye;
	The drake, stroyere of his owene kynde;
	The stork, the wrekere of avouterye;
	The hote cormeraunt of glotenye;
	The raven wys; the crowe with vois of care;
70	The throstil old; the frosty feldefare.
	What shulde I seyn? Of foules every kynde
	That in this world han fetheres and stature
	Men myghten in that place assembled fynde
	Byfore the noble goddesse of Nature,
75	And everich of hem dide his besy cure
	Benygnely to chese or for to take,
	By hire acord, his formel or his make.

[Roundel]

	Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,
	That hast this wintres wedres overshake,
	And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!
	Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,
5	Thus syngen smale foules for thy sake:
	Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,
	That hast this wintres wedres overshake.
	Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
	Sich ech of hem recovered hath hys make,
10	Ful blissful mowe they synge when they wake:
	Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,
	That hast thes wintres wedres overshake,
	And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!

(1478)

GEOFFREY CHAUCER from The Boke of Troilus

[Envoi]

	Go, litel boke, go, litel myn tragedye,
	Ther God thi makere yet, er that he dye,
	So sende myght to make in som comedye!
	But litel book, no makyng thow n’envie,
5	But subgit be to alle poyesye,
	And kis the steppes where as thow seest pace
	Virgile, Ovide, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.
	And for ther is so gret diversite
	In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge,
10	So prey I to God that non myswrite the,
	Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge;
	And red wherso thow be, or elles songe,
	That thow be understonde, God I biseche!
	But yet to purpos of my rather speche.
15	The wrath, as I bigan yow for to seye,
	Of Troilus the Grekis boughten deere,
	For thousandes his hondes maden deye,
	As he that was withouten any peere
	Save Ector, in his tyme, as I kan heere.
20	But weilawey – save only Goddes wille –
	Despitously hym slough the fierse Achille.
	And whan that he was slayn in this manere,
	His lighte goost ful blisfully is went
	Up to the holughnesse of the eighthe spere,
25	In convers letyng everich element;
	And ther he saugh with ful avysement
	The erratik sterres, herkenyng armonye
	With sownes ful of hevenyssh melodie.
	And down from thennes faste he gan avyse
30	This litel spot of erthe that with the se
	Embraced is, and fully gan despise
	This wrecched world, and held al vanite
	To respect of the pleyn felicite
	That is in hevene above; and at the laste,
35	Ther he was slayn his lokyng down he caste,
	And in hymself he lough right at the wo
	Of hem that wepten for his deth so faste,
	And dampned al oure werk that foloweth so
	The blynde lust, the which that may nat laste,
40	And sholden al oure herte on heven caste,
	And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,
	Ther as Mercurye sorted hym to dwelle.
	Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love!
	Swich fyn hath al his grete worthynesse,
45	Swich fyn hath his estat real above,
	Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse,
	Swych fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse.
	And thus bigan his lovyng of Criseyde,
	As I have told, and in this wise he deyde.
50	O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she,
	In which that love up groweth with youre age,
	Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte,
	And of youre herte up casteth the visage
	To thilke God that after his ymage
	Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire
	This world that passeth soone as floures faire.
	And loveth hym the which that right for love
	Upon a crois, oure soules for to beye,
	First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene above;
60	For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye,
	That wol his herte al holly on hym leye.
	And syn he best to love is, and most meke,
	What nedeth feynede loves for to seke?
	Lo here, of payens corsed olde rites!
65	Lo here, what alle hire goddes may availle!
	Lo here, thise wrecched worldes appetites!
	Lo here, the fyn and guerdoun for travaille
	Of Jove, Appollo, of Mars, of swich rascaille!
	Lo here, the forme of olde clerkis speche
70	In poetrie, if ye hire bokes seche.
	O moral Gower, this book I directe
	To the, and to the, philosophical Strode,
	To vouchen-sauf, ther nede is, to correcte,
	Of youre benignites and zeles goode.
75	And to that sothfast Crist, that starf on rode,
	With al myn herte of mercy evere I preye,
	And to the Lord right thus I speke and seye:
	Thow oon, and two, and thre, eterne on lyve,
	That regnest ay in thre, and two, and oon,
80	Uncircumscript, and al maist circumscrive,
	Us from visible and invisible foon
	Defende, and to thy mercye, everichon,
	So make us, Jesus, for thi mercy, digne,
	For love of Mayde and Moder thyn benigne.
	Amen.

(1483)

ANONYMOUS

	When Adam dalf and Eve span
	Who was tho a gentelman?

(1530)

WILLIAM LANGLAND from The Vision of Piers Plowman

[Prologue]

	In a somur sesoun whan softe was the sonne
	I shope me into shroudes as I a shep were –
	In abite as an heremite unholy of werkes
	Wente forth in the world wondres to here,
5	And say many sellies and selkouthe thynges.
	Ac on a May mornyng on Malverne hulles
	Me biful for to slepe, for werynesse of-walked;
	And in a launde as I lay, lened I and slepte,
	And merveylousliche me mette, as I may telle.
10	Al the welthe of the world and the wo bothe
	Wynkyng, as hit were, witterliche I seigh hit;
	Of treuthe and tricherye, tresoun and gyle,
	Al I say slepynge, as I shal telle.
	Estward I beheld aftir the sonne
15	And say a tour – as I trowed, Treuthe was there-ynne;
	Westward I waytede in a while aftir
	And seigh a depe dale – Deth, as I leue,
	Woned in tho wones, and wikkede spirites.
	A fair feld ful of folk fond I ther bytwene
20	Of alle manere men, the mene and the pore,
	Worchyng and wandryng as this world asketh.
	Somme putte hem to the plogh, playde ful selde,
	In settynge and in sowynge swonken ful harde
	And wonne that this wastors with glotony destrueth.
	And summe putte hem to pruyde and parayled hem ther-aftir
	In continance of clothyng in many kyne gyse.
	In preiers and penaunces putten hem mony,
	Al for love of oure lord lyveden swythe harde
	In hope to have a good ende and hevenriche blisse,
30	As ankeres and eremites that holdeth hem in here selles,
	Coveyten noght in contreys to cayren aboute
	For no likerous liflode here lycame to plese.
	And summe chesen chaffare – thei cheveth the bettre,
	As it semeth to oure sighte that suche men ythruveth;
35	And summe murthes to make as mynstrels conneth,
	Wolleth neyther swynke ne swete, bote sweren grete othes,
	Fyndeth out foule fantasyes and foles hem maketh
	And hath wytt at wille to worche yf thei wolde.
	That Poule prechede of hem preve hit I myhte:
40	Qui turpiloquium loquitur is Luciferes knave.
	Bidders and beggers fast aboute yede
	Til here bagge and here bely was bretful ycrammed,
	Fayteden for here fode and foughten at the ale.
	In glotonye tho gomes goth thei to bedde
45	And ryseth with rybaudrye tho Robardes knaves;
	Slep and also slewthe sueth suche ever.
	Pilgrymes and palmers plighten hem togyderes
	To seke seynt Jame and seyntes of Rome,
	Wenten forth on here way with many wyse tales
50	And hadde leve to lye aftir, al here lyf-tyme.
	Eremites on an hep with hokede staves
	Wenten to Walsyngham, and here wenches aftir;
	Grete lobies and longe that loth were to swynke
	Clothed hem in copis to be knowe fram othere
55	And made hemself heremites, here ese to have.
	I fonde ther of freris alle the foure ordres,
	Prechyng the peple for profyt of the wombe,
	And glosede the gospel as hem good likede;
	For coveytise of copis contraryed somme doctours.
60	Mony of thise maistres of mendenant freres
	Here moneye and marchandise marchen togyderes.
	Ac sith charite hath be chapman and chief to shryve lordes
	Mony ferlyes han falle in a fewe yeres,
	And but holi chirche and charite choppe adoun suche shryvars
65	The moste meschief on molde mounteth up faste.

[Gluttony in the Ale-house]

	Now bygynneth Glotoun for to go to shryfte
	And kayres hym to kyrke-ward, his conpte to shewe.
	Fastyng on a Friday forth gan he wende
	By Betene hous the brewestere, that bad hym good morwen,
5	And whodeward he wolde the breuh-wyf hym askede.
	‘To holy churche,’ quod he, ‘for to here masse,
	And sennes sitte and be shryve and synege no more.’
	‘I have good ale, gossip Glotoun, woltow assaye?’
	‘Hastow,’ quod he, ‘eny hote spyces?’
10	‘I have pepur and pyonie and a pound of garlek,
	A ferthyng-worth fenkelsedes, for fastyng-dayes I bouhte hit.’
	Thenne goth Glotoun in and Grete Othes aftur.
	Sesse the souteres sat on the benche,
	Watte the wernare and his wyf dronke,
15	Tymme the tynekare and tweyne of his knaves,
	Hicke the hackenayman and Hewe the nedlare,
	Claryce of Cockes-lane and the clerc of the churche,
	Syre Peres of Prydie and Purnele of Flaundres,
	An hayward, an heremyte, the hangeman of Tybourne,
	Dawe the dikere, with a doseyne harlotes
	Of portours and of pikeporses and of pilede toth-draweres,
	A rybibour and a ratoner, a rakeare and his knave,
	A ropere and a redyng-kynge and Rose the disshere,
	Godefray the garlek-monger and Gryffyth the Walshe,
25	And of uphalderes an heep, herly by the morwe
	Geven Glotoun with glad chere good ale to hansull.
	Clement the coblere cast of his cloke
	And to the newe fayre nempnede hit forth to sull.
	Hicke the hackenayman hit his hod aftur
30	And bade Bitte the bochere ben on his syde.
	There were chapmen ychose this chaffare to preyse,
	That ho-so hadde the hood sholde nat have the cloke,
	And that the bettere thyng, be arbitreres, bote sholde the worse.
	Tho rysen up rapliche and rouned togyderes
35	And preisede this peniworths apart by hemsulve,
	And there were othes an heep, for on sholde have the worse.
	They couthe nat by here conscience acorden for treuthe
	Til Robyn the ropere aryse they bisouhte
	And nempned hym for a noumper, that no debat were.
40	Hicke the hostiler hadde the cloke,
	In covenaunt that Clement sholde the coppe fulle,
	And have Hickes hood the hostiler and holde hym yserved;
	And ho-so repentede hym rathest sholde aryse aftur
	And grete syre Glotoun with a galon of ale.
45	There was leyhing and louryng and ‘lat go the coppe!’
	Bargaynes and bevereges bygan tho to awake,
	And seten so til evensong, and songen umbywhile,
	Til Glotoun hadde yglobbed a galoun and a gylle.
	His gottes gan to gothly as two grydy sowes;
50	He pissede a potel in a pater-noster whyle,
	He blew his rownd ruet at his rygebones ende,
	That alle that herde the horne helde here nose aftur
	And wesched hit hadde be wasche with a weps of breres.
	He myhte nother steppe ne stande til he a staf hadde,
55	And thenne gan he go lyke a glemans byche,
	Sum tyme asyde and sum tyme arere,
	As ho-so layth lynes for to lacche foules.
	And when he drow to the dore, thenne dymmede his yes,
	And thromblede at the thresfold and threw to the erthe,
60	And Clement the coblere cauhte hym by the myddel
	And for to lyfte hym aloft leyde hym on his knees.
	Ac Gloton was a greet cherl and greved in the luftynge
	And cowed up a caudel in Clementis lappe;
	Ys none so hungry hound in Hertfordshyre
65	Durste lape of that lyvynge, so unlovely hit smauhte.
	With alle the wo of this world his wyf and his wenche
	Baren hym to his bed and brouhten hym ther-ynne,
	And aftur al this exces he hadde an accidie aftur;
	He sleep Saturday and Sonenday til the sonne yede to reste.
70	Then gan he wake wel wanne and wolde have ydronke;
	The furste word that he spake was ‘Who halt the bolle?’
	His wif and his inwit edwitede hym of his synne;
	He wax ashamed, that shrewe, and shrofe hym as swythe
	To Repentaunce ryht thus: ‘Have reuthe on me,’ he saide,
75	‘Thow lord that aloft art and alle lyves shope!
	‘To the, God, I, Glotoun, gulty I me yelde
	Of that I have trespased with tonge, I can nat telle how ofte,
	Sworn “Godes soule and his sides!” and “So helpe me, God almyhty!”
	There no nede ne was, many sythe falsly;
80	And over-sopped at my soper and som tyme at nones
	More then my kynde myhte deffye,
	And as an hound that eet gras so gan I to brake
	And spilde that I aspele myhte – I kan nat speke for shame
	The vilony of my foule mouthe and of my foule mawe –
85	And fastyng-dayes bifore none fedde me with ale
	Out of resoun, among rybaudes, here rybaudrye to here.
	‘Herof, gode God, graunte me foryevenesse
	Of all my luyther lyf in al my lyf-tyme
	For I vowe to verray God, for eny hungur or furste,
90	Shal nevere fysch in the Fryday defyen in my wombe
	Til Abstinence myn aunte have yeve me leve –
	And yut have I hated here al my lyf-tyme.’

(1550)

GEOFFREY CHAUCER from The Canterbury Tales

from The General Prologue

	Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
	The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
	And bathed every veyne in swich licour
	Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
5	Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
	Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
	The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
	Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,
	And smale foweles maken melodye,
10	That slepen al the nyght with open ye
	(So priketh hem nature in hir corages),
	Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
	And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
	To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
15	And specially from every shires ende
	Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
	The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
	That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

from The General Prologue [The Prioress]

	Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,
	That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy;
	Hire gretteste ooth was but by Seinte Loy;
	And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.
5	Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne,
	Entuned in hir nose ful semely;
	And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,
	After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
	For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.
10	At mete wel ytaught was she with alle;
	She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,
	Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe;
	Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe
	That no drope ne fille upon hire brest.
15	In curteisie was set ful muchel hir lest.
	Hir over-lippe wyped she so clene
	That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene
	Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.
	Ful semely after hir mete she raughte.
20	And sikerly she was of greet desport,
	And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port,
	And peyned hire to countrefete cheere
	Of court, and to been estatlich of manere,
	And to ben holden digne of reverence.
25	But for to speken of hire conscience,
	She was so charitable and so pitous
	She wolde wepe, if that she saugh a mous
	Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
	Of smale houndes hadde she that she fedde
30	With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed.
	But soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed,
	Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte;
	And al was conscience and tendre herte.
	Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was,
	Hir nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas,
	Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed.
	But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;
	It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe;
	For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
40	Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war.
	Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar
	A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
	And theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,
	On which ther was first write a crowned A,
45	And after Amor vincit omnia.
	Another Nonne with hire hadde she,
	That was hir chapeleyne, and preestes thre.

from The Knight’s Tale [The Temple of Mars]

	Why sholde I noght as wel eek telle yow al
	The portreiture that was upon the wal
	Withinne the temple of myghty Mars the rede?
	Al peynted was the wal, in lengthe and brede,
5	Lyk to the estres of the grisly place
	That highte the grete temple of Mars in Trace,
	In thilke colde, frosty regioun
	Ther as Mars hath his sovereyn mansioun.
	First on the wal was peynted a forest,
10	In which ther dwelleth neither man ne best,
	With knotty, knarry, bareyne trees olde,
	Of stubbes sharpe and hidouse to biholde,
	In which ther ran a rumbel in a swough,
	As though a storm sholde bresten every bough.
15	And dounward from an hille, under a bente,
	Ther stood the temple of Mars armypotente,
	Wroght al of burned steel, of which the entree
	Was long and streit, and gastly for to see.
	And therout came a rage and swich a veze
20	That it made al the gate for to rese.
	The northren lyght in at the dores shoon,
	For wyndowe on the wal ne was ther noon,
	Thurgh which men myghten any light discerne.
	The dore was al of adamant eterne,
25	Yclenched overthwart and endelong
	With iren tough; and for to make it strong,
	Every pyler, the temple to sustene,
	Was tonne-greet, of iren bright and shene.
	Ther saugh I first the derke ymaginyng
30	Of Felonye, and al the compassyng;
	The crueel Ire, reed as any gleede;
	The pykepurs, and eek the pale Drede;
	The smylere with the knyf under the cloke;
	The shepne brennynge with the blake smoke;
35	The tresoun of the mordrynge in the bedde;
	The open werre, with woundes al bibledde;
	Contek, with blody knyf and sharp manace.
	Al ful of chirkyng was that sory place.
	The sleere of hymself yet saugh I ther –
40	His herte-blood hath bathed al his heer –
	The nayl ydryven in the shode anyght;
	The colde deeth, with mouth gapyng upright.
	Amyddes of the temple sat Meschaunce,
	With disconfort and sory contenaunce.
45	Yet saugh I Woodnesse, laughynge in his rage,
	Armed Compleint, Outhees, and fiers Outrage;
	The careyne in the busk, with throte ycorve;
	A thousand slayn, and nat of qualm ystorve;
	The tiraunt, with the pray by force yraft;
	The toun destroyed, ther was no thyng laft.
	Yet saugh I brent the shippes hoppesteres;
	The hunte strangled with the wilde beres;
	The sowe freten the child right in the cradel;
	The cook yscalded, for al his longe ladel.
55	Noght was foryeten by the infortune of Marte.
	The cartere overryden with his carte –
	Under the wheel ful lowe he lay adoun.
	Ther were also, of Martes divisioun,
	The barbour, and the bocher, and the smyth,
60	That forgeth sharpe swerdes on his styth.
	And al above, depeynted in a tour,
	Saugh I Conquest, sittynge in greet honour,
	With the sharpe swerd over his heed
	Hangynge by a soutil twynes threed.

from The Knight’s Tale [Saturn]

	‘My deere doghter Venus,’ quod Saturne,
	‘My cours, that hath so wyde for to turne,
	Hath moore power than woot any man.
	Myn is the drenchyng in the see so wan;
5	Myn is the prison in the derke cote;
	Myn is the stranglyng and hangyng by the throte,
	The murmure and the cherles rebellyng,
	The groynynge, and the pryvee empoysonyng;
	I do vengeance and pleyn correccioun,
10	Whil I dwelle in the signe of the leoun.
	Myn is the ruyne of the hye halles,
	The fallynge of the toures and of the walles
	Upon the mynour or the carpenter.
	I slow Sampsoun, shakynge the piler;
15	And myne be the maladyes colde,
	The derke tresons, and the castes olde;
	My lookyng is the fader of pestilence.’

from The Milleres Tale [Alysoun]

	This carpenter hadde wedded newe a wyf,
	Which that he lovede moore than his lyf;
	Of eighteteene yeer she was of age.
	Jalous he was, and heeld hire narwe in cage,
5	For she was wylde and yong, and he was old
	And demed hymself been lik a cokewold.
	He knew nat Catoun, for his wit was rude,
	That bad man sholde wedde his simylitude.
	Men sholde wedden after hire estaat,
10	For youthe and elde is often at debaat.
	But sith that he was fallen in the snare,
	He moste endure, as oother folk, his care.
	Fair was this yonge wyf, and therwithal
	As any wezele hir body gent and smal.
15	A ceynt she werede, barred al of silk,
	A barmclooth as whit as morne milk
	Upon hir lendes, ful of many a goore.
	Whit was hir smok, and broyden al bifoore
	And eek bihynde, on hir coler aboute,
20	Of col-blak silk, withinne and eek withoute.
	The tapes of hir white voluper
	Were of the same suyte of hir coler;
	Hir filet brood of silk, and set ful hye.
	And sikerly she hadde a likerous ye;
25	Ful smale ypulled were hire browes two,
	And tho were bent and blake as any sloo.
	She was ful moore blisful on to see
	Than is the newe pere-jonette tree,
	And softer than the wolle is of a wether.
	And by hir girdel heeng a purs of lether,
	Tasseled with silk and perled with latoun.
	In al this world, to seken up and doun,
	There nys no man so wys that koude thenche
	So gay a popelote or swich a wenche.
35	Ful brighter was the shynyng of hir hewe
	Than in the Tour the noble yforged newe.
	But of hir song, it was as loude and yerne
	As any swalwe sittynge on a berne.
	Therto she koude skippe and make game,
40	As any kyde or calf folwynge his dame.
	Hir mouth was sweete as bragot or the meeth,
	Or hoord of apples leyd in hey or heeth.
	Wynsynge she was, as is a joly colt,
	Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt.
45	A brooch she baar upon hir lowe coler,
	As brood as is the boos of a bokeler.
	Hir shoes were laced on hir legges hye.
	She was a prymerole, a piggesnye,
	For any lord to leggen in his bedde,
50	Or yet for any good yeman to wedde.

from The Wife of Bath’s Prologue

	My fourthe housbonde was a revelour –
	This is to seyn, he hadde a paramour –
	And I was yong and ful of ragerye,
	Stibourn and strong, and joly as a pye.
5	How koude I daunce to an harpe smale,
	And synge, ywis, as any nyghtyngale,
	Whan I had dronke a draughte of sweete wyn!
	Metellius, the foule cherl, the swyn,
	That with a staf birafte his wyf hir lyf,
10	For she drank wyn, thogh I hadde been his wyf,
	He sholde nat han daunted me fro drynke!
	And after wyn on Venus moste I thynke,
	For al so siker as cold engendreth hayl,
	A likerous mouth moste han a likerous tayl.
15	In wommen vinolent is no defence –
	This knowen lecchours by experience.
	But – Lord Crist! – whan that it remembreth me
	Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee,
	It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote.
20	Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote
	That I have had my world as in my tyme.
	But age, allas, that al wole envenyme,
	Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith.
	Lat go. Farewel! The devel go therwith!
25	The flour is goon; ther is namoore to telle;
	The bren, as I best kan, now moste I selle;
	But yet to be right myrie wol I fonde.
	Now wol I tellen of my fourthe housbonde.
	I seye, I hadde in herte greet despit
30	That he of any oother had delit.
	But he was quit, by God and by Seint Joce!
	I made hym of the same wode a croce;
	Nat of my body, in no foul manere,
	But certeinly, I made folk swich cheere
35	That in his owene grece I made hym frye
	For angre, and for verray jalousye.
	By God, in erthe I was his purgatorie,
	For which I hope his soule be in glorie.
	For, God it woot, he sat ful ofte and song,
40	Whan that his shoo ful bitterly hym wrong.
	Ther was no wight, save God and he, that wiste,
	In many wise, how soore I hym twiste.
	He deyde whan I cam fro Jerusalem,
	And lith ygrave under the roode beem,
	Al is his tombe noght so curyus
	As was the sepulcre of hym Daryus,
	Which that Appelles wroghte subtilly;
	It nys but wast to burye hym preciously.
	Lat hym fare wel; God yeve his soule reste!
50	He is now in his grave and in his cheste.

from The Pardoner’s Tale

	Thise riotoures thre of whiche I telle,
	Longe erst er prime rong of any belle,
	Were set hem in a taverne to drynke,
	And as they sat, they herde a belle clynke
5	Biforn a cors, was caried to his grave.
	That oon of hem gan callen to his knave:
	‘Go bet,’ quod he, ‘and axe redily
	What cors is this that passeth heer forby;
	And looke that thou reporte his name weel.’
10	‘Sire,’ quod this boy, ‘it nedeth never-a-deel;
	It was me toold er ye cam heer two houres.
	He was, pardee, an old felawe of youres,
	And sodeynly he was yslayn to-nyght,
	Fordronke, as he sat on his bench upright.
15	Ther cam a privee theef men clepeth Deeth,
	That in this contree al the peple sleeth,
	And with his spere he smoot his herte atwo,
	And wente his wey withouten wordes mo.
	He hath a thousand slayn this pestilence,
20	And, maister, er ye come in his presence,
	Me thynketh that it were necessarie
	For to be war of swich an adversarie.
	Beth redy for to meete hym everemoore;
	Thus taughte me my dame; I sey namoore.’
25	‘By Seinte Marie!’ seyde this taverner,
	‘The child seith sooth, for he hath slayn this yeer,
	Henne over a mile, withinne a greet village,
	Bothe man and womman, child, and hyne, and page;
	I trowe his habitacioun be there.
30	To been avysed greet wysdom it were,
	Er that he dide a man a dishonour.’
	‘Ye, Goddes armes!’ quod this riotour,
	‘Is it swich peril with hym for to meete?
	I shal hym seke by wey and eek by strete,
35	I make avow to Goddes digne bones!
	Herkneth, felawes, we thre been al ones;
	Lat ech of us holde up his hand til oother,
	And ech of us bicomen otheres brother,
	And we wol sleen this false traytour Deeth.
40	He shal be slayn, he that so manye sleeth,
	By Goddes dignitee, er it be nyght!’
	Togidres han thise thre hir trouthes plight
	To lyve and dyen ech of hem for oother,
	As though he were his owene ybore brother.
45	And up they stirte, al dronken in this rage,
	And forth they goon towardes that village
	Of which the taverner hadde spoke biforn.
	And many a grisly ooth thanne han they sworn,
	And Cristes blessed body they torente –
50	Deeth shal be deed, if that they may hym hente!
	Whan they han goon nat fully half a mile,
	Right as they wolde han troden over a stile,
	An oold man and a povre with hem mette.
	This olde man ful mekely hem grette,
55	And seyde thus, ‘Now, lordes, God yow see!’
	The proudeste of thise riotoures three
	Answerde agayn, ‘What, carl, with sory grace!
	Why artow al forwrapped save thy face?
	Why lyvestow so longe in so greet age?’
60	This olde man gan looke in his visage,
	And seyde thus: ‘For I ne kan nat fynde
	A man, though that I walked into Ynde,
	Neither in citee ne in no village,
	That wolde chaunge his youthe for myn age;
	And therfore moot I han myn age stille,
	As longe tyme as it is Goddes wille.
	Ne Deeth, allas, ne wol nat han my lyf.
	Thus walke I, lyk a restelees kaityf,
	And on the ground, which is my moodres gate,
70	I knokke with my staf, bothe erly and late,
	And seye “Leeve mooder, leet me in!
	Lo how I vanysshe, flessh, and blood, and skyn!
	Alias, whan shul my bones been at reste?
	Mooder, with yow wolde I chaunge my cheste
75	That in my chambre longe tyme hath be,
	Ye, for an heyre clowt to wrappe me!”
	But yet to me she wol nat do that grace,
	For which ful pale and welked is my face.
	‘But, sires, to yow it is no curteisye
80	To speken to an old man vileynye,
	But he trespasse in word or elles in dede.
	In Hooly Writ ye may yourself wel rede:
	“Agayns an oold man, hoor upon his heed,
	Ye sholde arise;” wherfore I yeve yow reed,
85	Ne dooth unto an oold man noon harm now,
	Namoore than that ye wolde men did to yow
	In age, if that ye so longe abyde.
	And God be with yow, where ye go or ryde!
	I moot go thider as I have to go.’
90	‘Nay, olde cherl, by God, thou shalt nat so,’
	Seyde this oother hasardour anon;
	‘Thou partest nat so lightly, by Seint John!
	Thou spak right now of thilke traytour Deeth.
	That in this contree alle oure freendes sleeth.
95	Have heer my trouthe, as thou art his espye,
	Telle where he is or thou shalt it abye,
	By God and by the hooly sacrement!
	For soothly thou art oon of his assent
	To sleen us yonge folk, thou false theef!’
100	‘Now, sires,’ quod he, ‘if that yow be so leef
	To fynde Deeth, turne up this croked wey,
	For in that grove I lafte hym, by my fey,
	Under a tree, and there he wole abyde;
	Noght for youre boost he wole him no thyng hyde.
105	Se ye that ook? Right there ye shal hym fynde.
	God save yow, that boghte agayn mankynde,
	And yow amende!’ Thus seyde this olde man;
	And everich of thise riotoures ran
	Til he cam to that tree, and ther they founde
110	Of floryns fyne of gold ycoyned rounde
	Wel ny an eighte busshels, as hem thoughte.
	No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte,
	But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte,
	For that the floryns been so faire and brighte,
115	That doun they sette hem by this precious hoord.

(1478)

ANONYMOUS from Patience

[Jonah and the Whale]

	Now is Jonas the Jwe jugged to drowne;
	Of that schended schyp men schowved hym sone.
	A wylde walterande whal, as Wyrde then schaped,
	That was beten fro the abyme, bi that bot flotte
5	And was war of that wyye that the water soghte
	And swyftely swenged hym to swepe and his swolw opened.
	The folk yet haldande his fete, the fysch hym tyd hentes;
	Withouten towche of any tothe he tult in his throte.
	Thenne he swenges and swayves to the se bothem,
10	Bi mony rokkes ful roghe and rydelande strondes,
	Wyth the mon in his mawe, malskred in drede –
	As lyttel wonder hit was yif he wo dreyed,
	For nade the hyghe Heven-Kyng, thurgh his honde myght,
	Warded this wrech man in warlowes guttes,
	What lede moght leve bi lawe of any kynde
	That any lyf myght be lent so longe hym withinne?
	Bot he was sokored by that Syre that syttes so highe,
	Thagh were wanles of wele in wombe of that fissche,
	And also dryven thurgh the depe and in derk walteres.
20	Lorde! colde was his cumfort and his care huge
	For he knew uche a cace and kark that hym lymped,
	How fro the bot into the blober was with a best lached
	And thrwe in at hit throte withouten thret more,
	As mote in at a munster-dor, so mukel wern his chawles.
25	He glydes in by the giles thugh glaym ande glette,
	Relande in by a rop, a rode that hym thoght,
	Ay hele over hed hourlande aboute,
	Til he blunt in a blok as brod as a halle;
	And ther he festnes the fete and fathmes aboute
30	And stod up in his stomak that stank as the devel.
	Ther in saym and in sorwe that savoured as helle
	Ther was bylded his bour that wyl no bale suffer.
	And thenne he lurkkes and laytes where was le best
	In uche a nok of his navel, bot nowhere he fyndes
35	No rest ne recoverer bot ramel ande myre
	In wych gut so-ever he gos – bot ever is God swete!
	And ther he lenged at the last and to the lede called:
	‘Now, Prynce, of thy prophete pite thou have!
	Thagh I be fol and fykel and falce of my hert,
40	Devoyde now thy vengaunce, thurgh vertu of rauthe;
	Thagh I be gulty of gyle, as gaule of prophetes,
	Thou art God, and alle gowdes ar graythely thyn owen.
	Haf now mercy of thy man and his mysdedes
	And preve the lyghtly a Lorde in londe and in water.’
45	With that he hitte to a hyrne and helde hym therinne,
	Ther no defoule of no fylthe was fest hym abute;
	Ther he sete also sounde, saf for merk one,
	As in the bulk of the bote ther he byfore sleped.
	So in a bouel of that best he bides on lyve
50	Thre dayes and thre nyght, ay thenkande on Dryghtyn,
	His myght and his merci, his mesure thenne:
	Now he knawes hym in care that couthe not in sele.
	Ande ever walteres this whal bi wyldren depe
	Thurgh mony a regioun ful roghe, thurgh ronk of his wylle;
55	For that mote in his mawe mad hym, I trowe,
	Thagh hit lyttel were hym wyth, to wamel at his hert;
	Ande as sayled the segge, ay sykerly he herde
	The bygge borne on his bak and bete on his sydes.

(1864)