Project Gutenberg Book of English Verse | Page 7

that a man may nevene
That
shulde a man so moche glew
As a gode womman that loveth true.

Ne derer is none in Goddis hurde
Than a chaste womman with lovely
worde.
nevene] name. glew] gladden. hurde] flock.
John Barbour. d. 1395
9. Freedom
A! Fredome is a noble thing!
Fredome mays man to haiff liking;

Fredome all solace to man giffis,
He levys at ese that frely levys!
A
noble hart may haiff nane ese,
Na ellys nocht that may him plese,

Gyff fredome fail; for fre liking
Is yarnyt our all othir thing.
Na he
that ay has levyt fre
May nocht knaw weill the propyrte,
The angyr,
na the wretchyt dome
That is couplyt to foule thyrldome.
Bot gyff
he had assayit it,
Than all perquer he suld it wyt;
And suld think
fredome mar to prise
Than all the gold in warld that is.
Thus contrar
thingis evirmar
Discoweryngis off the tothir ar.
liking] liberty. na ellys nocht] nor aught else. yarnyt] yearned for.

perquer] thoroughly, by heart.
Geoffrey Chaucer. 1340?-1400
10. The Love Unfeigned
O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth
with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your
herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow
made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as
floures fayre.
And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules
for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;
For he nil
falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.

And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned
loves for to seke?
repeyreth] repair ye. starf] died.
Geoffrey Chaucer. 1340?-1400
11. Balade
HYD, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al
a-doun;
Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere;
Penalopee, and
Marcia Catoun,
Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun;
Hyde ye
your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may
disteyne.
Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere,
Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of
Rome toun,
And Polixene, that boghten love so dere,
And
Cleopatre, with al thy passioun,
Hyde ye your trouthe of love and
your renoun;
And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne;
My
lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere,
And Phyllis, hanging for thy
Demophoun,
And Canace, espyed by thy chere,
Ysiphile, betraysed
with Jasoun,
Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun;
Nor
Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may
distevne.
disteyne] bedim. y-fere] together.
Geoffrey Chaucer. 1340?-1400
12. Merciles Beaute
A TRIPLE ROUNDEL
0. CAPTIVITY
YOUR eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not
sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit
is grene,
Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beaute of
hem not sustene.
Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and
deeth the quene;
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your
eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,

So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
2. REJECTION
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth
not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey yow sooth, me
nedeth not to feyne;
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee,
that me ne availeth not to pleyne.

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed
So greet beaute, that no
man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
So hath
your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to
pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
3. ESCAPE
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison
lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I
mene.
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his
prison lene.
Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of
my bokes clene
For ever-mo; ther is non other mene.
Sin I fro Love
escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am
free, I counte him not a bene.
halt] holdeth. sclat] slate.
Thomas Hoccleve. 1368-9?-1450?
13. Lament for Chaucer
ALLAS! my worthi maister honorable,
This landes verray tresor and
richesse!
Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable
Unto us doon: hir
vengeable duresse
Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse
Of
rethorik; for unto Tullius
Was never man so lyk amonges us.
Also who was hier in philosophie
To Aristotle in our tonge but thou?

The steppes of Virgile in poesie
Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel
ynow.
Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow--
Wolde I
slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf
To renne on thee and reve the thi
lyf...

She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while
Til that sum man had
egal to