THE DUKE OF TRUE LOVERS (continued 2)

Your humble slave.

Thus did I finish my letter, and, at the end, I added a short ballad, so that she might not be wearied in the reading. Therefore listen to the device of it, for it is after a strange manner—

BALLAD

Kind and fair Saint,

My heart's repose,

Whose sweet constraint

Doth all enclose

That the world knows

Of graciousness,

Vouchsafe me grace!

Fresh without taint

As the new rose,

This my heart's plaint

That overflows,

Ere my breath goes,

Pity and bless.

Vouchsafe me grace!

Ah, sweet dove pent,

Shy dove, for whose

Dear grace I faint,

So my heart glows

It dares disclose

Love, Love, nought less.

Vouchsafe me grace!

Save thy heart close

To longing's throes,

O Loveliness,

Vouchsafe me grace!

And I despatched my letter by my cousin, and thus sent forth on his way him whom I loved, imploring him to entreat of my lady that it might please her that ere long I might have speech of her, else my wretched and weary life would soon be ended.

And he tarried not until he was come to her dwelling. And there he was in nowise denied, but was made very welcome. And he wisely restrained him until he saw the fitting time to report his errand. Then he spake well and wisely in my behalf, praying her that, for God's sake, she would no longer suffer me, who was dying of love, so to languish that such hurt would ensue to me that I could not recover. Then he gave her the letter, and she read it, and scanned it quite leisurely. To be brief, she made answer that she well believed that I spake from the bottom of my heart when I made request for her love, since dissimulation was not usual in one so young, and she thought it certain, and without doubt, that the jealous one would depart within three days, and would go far away. And it seemed that at the same time all danger would be at an end, and then we should be able to hold converse together without hindrance, and, when she perceived it to be the fitting time, she would that I should come secretly with my cousin in the evening, dressed as a varlet, although she would have me to be concealed when I was come there, so that neither stranger, nor kinsfolk, nor any save her secretary, should know of it. And touching this, she would not fail to make known by this one what she would that I should do, provided he failed not to warn me to demean me so modestly towards her as not to do aught to provoke her displeasure or reproach.

And he gave her full assurance of this, saying that she might be certain of it, for rather would I die than venture to do aught contrary to her will.

Thus he returned with this news, the which was so good and pleasing unto me, that I seemed to myself to be in a very happy dream.

And I thought on this without ceasing, but the delay seemed long to me. And she who held my heart in bondage forgot me not on the day on which she had made promise to send to me. Therefore it behoved me to give hearty welcome to the very distinguished messenger who brought to me the pleasing news for the which I was longing, the which was that I should go at nightfall to her to whom my heart went out, and who made known to me by this one what she would have me do, and that I should speak of it to no one save only to him who knew of it, and that he, and I, and her secretary, should set out, and should take none other thither.

Then we set out quickly, and parted from our followers, discreetly telling them not to be uneasy about it, but to be of good cheer, for it was needful for us to arrange some business between us three, the which would occupy us the whole day, and that we should return on the morrow.

And right joyously did we ride without drawing rein, and exactly at the hour named, we arrived at the place where my dear lady sometimes sojourned. And we dismounted without a torch, and then I divested me of my tunic, and put on another one.

And my kind and prudent cousin went up undisguised, and I took charge of the horses, and was careful not to be recognised. And on the instant he invented the excuse that he was come there at that hour upon a pressing matter the which had just arisen, and upon which he must without fail speak unto the lord as soon as possible, for very great need made this urgent. And he was told that he was not there, and would not return for some months. And he said that great hurt would happen to him in consequence.

Then my very sweet lady made haste, and came on a sudden to a lattice window the which overlooked the courtyard. And she said, “What chance brings my cousin here? Go and let down the bridge quickly. Thus shall I learn what he wants. I know not but that some one sends me urgent news by him.”

Then was my cousin escorted to her by two damsels. And when he was come, she asked of him, after that he had saluted her, “Is any one dead, or what brings you here so late? I have not seen you for a week. Tell me what you want.”

Then he said that it was of no avail for him to remain since he had not met with the lord and master, the which grieved him. Thus it was meet that he return.

And she made answer that he must not do so, but must without fail make all his affair known unto her.

Then he said, “My varlet, who holds my horses at the gate, must bring me a letter the which I gave into his charge, and some one must tell him to come without delay.”

And my lady, in a haughty manner, gave command to her secretary to do this, and he, with much haste, put the horses into a stable, and then escorted me up. And my cousin, who took great precautions, came to the door of the chamber, and he turned him to me, saying, “Give me that letter quickly.” Then he said to the secretary, “Let him be gone at once, for there is naught beside for him to do here, and it is not convenient for a varlet to remain in the chamber at this present.”

My cousin said all this for that a light was shining in the chamber, by the which I might be recognised, and thus I should be found out.

And he took a long letter the which I had placed in my bosom, and then he drew my lady aside, and, reading it, showed how weighty a matter was set forth in it. Meanwhiles the secretary, as my lady had commanded him, made me to withdraw without a light into the chamber, the which communicated with that of my sweet and fair lady, of a lady who was prudent, reserved, and without reproach, and who was acquainted with everything.

And as soon as the letter had been read in the presence of all, my cousin was bent on departing, and made semblance of great regret, but she forbade him to go, and said that without fail he must remain there, or she would make complaint of it to her lord, and thus she made him tarry.

And she held long converse with him, and at length, so that this might not create wonderment, she said that it was time to rest, and that there was no cause for any one to keep watch in her chamber. And to the end that there might be no suspicion or doubt wherefore he was come there at that hour, his bed was made ready in a distant chamber, to the which he was escorted to rest, and thither was he accompanied by the most trusted of the esquires who had the charge of her within the castle, since they no longer waited on her because of the hour.

Then without delay she disrobed her, and laid her down in the presence of her gentlewomen, but not long did she remain there, but arose and apparelled her, and made complaint that she suffered somewhat, and because of this she would that a fire were prepared in the chamber where I was. So I was hidden until that the serving-woman had made a fire in the chamber.

Then my lady came wrapped in a long mantle, and she brought not with her any of her waiting-women save one, the whom was the lady before mentioned, whom she had chosen above all, and on whose breast she leaned, and she dismissed the serving-woman to bed, for she said she would not that she remained up, so that she might not be wearied. And after she was gone, the door was bolted.

Then the lady came to fetch me, and led me to my lady. And scarce did I salute her, for so perturbed did I feel, that I knew not where I was. Ne'ertheless I said, “Sweet Lady, may God preserve you, both body and soul.”

“Friend,” made she answer, “you are very welcome.”

Then she made me to sit down beside her, and as soon as I looked on her, I became like one beside himself. And well did my lady perceive this, and she received me with a kiss, for the which I many times humbly gave her thanks.

And my lady, revered of my fearful and doubting heart, commenced to speak after this manner. “Have I, who have caused you to come hither thus secretly, done your will, fair Sir? Is this the deed of a friend? In nowise deceive me now, but I earnestly entreat of you to tell me, if you can, and whiles that you have opportunity, all your desire.”

Then all trembling with joy, sighing, I said, “Ah, sweet Lady! by my troth I know not how to utter that which I would. Therefore, very dear Lady, take it in good part, and recognise how that I am wholly yours, both body and soul, and more I cannot say.”

And she drew nearer, and put her arm around my neck, and, laughing, she spake thus. “It behoves me, then, to speak for us both, since you cannot call to mind aught to say, and yet I verily believe that love bestows on me so goodly a portion of his favours, that I trust I could in nowise utter a single word concerning that which I presume you speak of, beyond what it is meet for me to say.”

Then the other lady who was there began to smile, and she said aloud, “Since I see you thus already in friendly accord in this matter, truly do I perceive and know that love makes fools of the wisest.”

And my lady said to me, “My friend, since love has made us of one mind, no longer is it needful to enquire if we love one another, and I well believe that love claims us, or can claim us both, as his servants, the which grieves me not. Ne'ertheless, dear friend, however much I trust you in this matter, I would, notwithstanding, make known to you all my will without concealing aught, and I know not what is your purport, but I tell you that, whatever love you perceive in me, and whatever semblance I may make, in word or look, of being trusting, pleased, or mirthful, and although I may kiss or embrace you, never for a moment must you imagine that I have the mind or the desire to do aught that is dishonouring, or in the which I may not be in every way free from reproach. Dear friend, I give you this warning, since never would I have you to say that in the smallest degree I had surrendered myself to you, for I swear that never will I do aught the which may tarnish mine honour. And so, once for all, I swear to you, of a truth, that as soon as I perceive, either from your demeanour or your look, that you cherish other desires, never again shall you see me. I know not whether I err in this, but I seek not to refuse you any other pleasure by the which it is permitted to a lady to enslave her lover, and but that I should be acting foolishly, and doing wrong to myself, I would surrender my heart altogether to you, and would give up all that I possess for you to use as you will, but I make promise unto you of loyalty and true friendship, and am willing to prefer you above all others if that this will content you, and this do I say truly. So tell me what you desire whiles that you have time and the opportunity, for I would understand your purpose.”

And when she whom I revered had ceased speaking, I made answer, “Ah, my Lady! Almost does it kill me to hear you speak thus. The love, the goodness, and the favour which you extend to me, should well content me, and I trust that you will never imagine that I am not willing to agree to all that you command. And believe me truly that, as I wrote in answer to your letter, I make promise unto you on my oath—and in this I perjure myself not—I would that I should never be had in honour, but should always be held disgraced, if that ever, for a single day, in deed, word, or thought, I should do or think aught, either in secret or openly, the which could displease you, and you may put me to the proof in such manner as you will, for never will aught that your heart desires be unwelcome to me, nor will it befall that aught which may be your wish can grieve me, and thus it behoves me not to distress me concerning this, for are you not my loved one? Is it not meet that I demean me according to your will? When I shall be moved to do otherwise, may I be destroyed, body and soul, and brought to ruin! Good God! how satisfied I ought to be since I perceive that you love me, and call me your dear friend! I possess that which I coveted, and naught beside do I strive after, and I think myself well recompensed. And as you are disposed alway to love me thus, I indeed perceive that there is no guile or malice in your heart, and I bethink me, moreover, that I shall do such service, that I shall be yet more loved by you. Therefore command me even now, for I am your liegeman, and my heart is wholly pledged to you, fair one. Declare now your pleasure, or send me whither you will, and I will go, and will obey in all things, without opposing your humour. Thus you can do as you will with me more than I know how to tell, and may God watch over you, and reward you abundantly for that you thus make promise wholly to love me. I ought not to speak ill of love, the which puts me in the way of attaining to such great joy. Therefore, fair and kind one, I give you humble thanks, for henceforth I shall wear the lover's crown, and I shall put away from me every evil habit, and take virtue into my service, the which I would seek above all things, in order to be like unto the valiant. Thus will you make me a wise and prudent man. In fine, sweet Lady, I could not be more happy, however much I might say concerning it.”

Then my lady, in whom dwells every grace, very tenderly embraced me, and kissed me more than an hundred times. And I remained thus happy all the night, and be assured, you lovers who hear this, that I was very contented. Many tender words full of delight were spoken that night, and she, in whom is all goodness, showed me how and where, in spite of every one, I might see her very often. Thus I asked for naught beside, for I had all that I desired. Ne'ertheless she earnestly charged me to be very mindful of her honour, even if at any time I had to defer seeing her, although the delay might cause annoyance, for I should put her in peril if that I took not careful heed beforehand of the proper time to come, and to depart when she admonished me.

Thus we passed the time, but shortwhile dured the night for me. And when the day was come, the which grieved me, embracing and kissing me an hundred times, and giving me sweet loving glances, she said, “Farewell, dear love.” And she bolted me in there all alone, and retired to her room. And, later, dressed as a page, I was released by the astute secretary, who was in the secret, and albeit I was not versed in the business, I resumed my former office, for, as he well said, it was meet for one who received so sweet a recompense, to take charge of the horses at the gate, and doubtless I would not wish to busy myself in any other office, and ofttimes did I take upon myself this pleasing service. Thus you see how it is sometimes needful for a master to turn varlet, and perchance in this manner he ofttimes comes by that which he desires.

And my cousin no longer remained dreaming, but arose betimes noiselessly, for he would not that any who slept should be awakened, and he had taken his leave of my lady yesternight. And he went out. And I awaited him, and led the horses to and fro like a good and trained varlet, and he said, “Come hither, fellow. How an-angered I could be with you when you lean on the saddle-bow!” Thus did he speak before those present, for some knights and men-at-arms would fain escort him to his dwelling, and they blamed him in that he had not more of his own men with him, but he assured them that, for a certain reason, he had done it quite designedly. He had thought to find the lord there, for never in his life had he had greater need or desire to speak with him. And then he desired that none should accompany him. And he set out on his way.

And so we departed, and as we rode, we held much friendly and gracious converse together, for the pleasing remembrance which I had on my return of the sweet joy which had comforted me, gave me so great solace, that no one could have had greater joy of aught. And we were quickly come to our journey's end, so much did we spur our horses, but I had put on my tunic again. Then, as soon as they perceived us, my retainers, who loved me and held me in esteem, received us with great delight, and we also were glad, and with great joy sang, in cheerful refrain, this quite new virelay:—

VIRELAY

Sweet, in whom my joy must be,

Now my heart is full of glee

For thy love: and loosed from care

All my song is, “Lady fair,

Living I consume for thee.”

But thy gentle love hath sent

The fair comfort that I need:

I therewith am well content.

Gladness doth my spirit lead.

Rightly am I glad, pardie!

For of old my jollity

Drowned in woes I had to bear:

Of thy help when I was ware

Gone was all my misery,

Sweet, in whom my joy must be.

Since the day that thou hast lent

Thy dear heart, my life is freed

From the sorrows I lament:

Peace and gladness are my meed.

Lady, love despatcheth me

Succour sweet, who thus am free

From my sickness: pale despair

Rules no longer when I share

Hope that I thy face may see,

Sweet, in whom my joy must be.

Now have I recounted unto you how that in the first instance I was surprised and subdued by love, and was afterward grievously constrained by great longing, and how my dear kinsman gave himself much trouble, with the result that I was delivered from my trouble by my lady, who had mercy on me, thanks be to her. And I will tell how that from that time I went to and fro. Thenceforth I was happy even as you have heard, and because of the joy which I had, I devised this ballad:—

BALLAD

In all the world is none so happy here

Nor is there any joy to match with mine,

Since she that hath no rival and no peer

Doth mercifully to my suit incline.

Her slave am I till death, for all my pain

In very truth hath met with guerdon meet:

She was my help on whom I called amain,

For she hath granted me her love so sweet.

Fair queen, in whom all nobleness is clear,

Thou would'st not have me for thy presence pine:

Nay, bid me cry in every lover's ear,

“Thirsty was I for Love's immortal wine!”

Not all my weeping might the gift obtain,

Yet she, enthroned on beauty's mercy-seat,

Hath pardoned all: too soon did I complain

For she hath granted me her love so sweet.

Now to delight returns the torrent drear

That of my mourning was the sorry sign:

Now am I joyous and of merry cheer,

More than aforetime in her grace divine.

Love bade me follow in his chosen train

Where gladness walks beside my lady's feet,

Nor any loss is mingled with my gain,

For she hath granted me her love so sweet.

Princess of love, my sorrow I disdain

Since out of mourning cometh joy complete

By grace of her who is love's suzerain,

For she hath granted me her love so sweet.

So I demeaned me prudently and wisely, and I desired to have apparel and horses and beautiful things in much plenty, and great pains did I take to make me acquainted with all matters which become honest folk, and, as far as I was able, I avoided those which are unworthy, and I always had the desire to increase my fame, to the end that my lady might hold herself loved of a brave man. Thus I spared no pains to become rich, in order to dispense freely, and it appeared as if I made no count of riches.

But to shorten my story, I tell you truly that none other thought had I than to follow in the path of true lovers, and oft, thank God, did I come to enjoy the welcome favours the which Love and Dames dispense to those who are faithful to them, for I well knew how to compass this, although it became expedient to be very careful where I saw my sweet goddess each week, so that no one, save those who were trusted, should come to know of it. And the first time that I returned to her, I took her this new ballad, the which greatly pleased her, and I brought back one from her.

BALLAD

Command of me, my Lady and my queen,

All thy good pleasure, as I were thy slave,

Which I shall do with glad and humble mien

That whatsoe'er thou willest, thou may'st have.

I owe no less

Being bound thereto for so great pleasantness,

More than to other lovers may betide:

For sweeter are thy gifts than all beside.

Thy love delivered me from dule and teen,

All that was needful to my soul it gave:

Is there not here in truth good reason seen

Thy love should rule the heart thy love did save?

Ah, what mistress

So guerdoneth her servant with largess

Of love's delight? The rest have I denied,

For sweeter are thy gifts than all beside.

Since such a harvest of reward I glean,

Love in my heart hath risen like a wave:

Thy slave am I, as I thy slave have been,

While life shall last. Ah, damsel bright and brave,

Sweet patroness

Of spirit and strength, and lady of noblesse,

All other comfort doth my heart deride,

For sweeter are thy gifts than all beside.

Most dear princess

Of joy thou art the fount, as I confess:

I thirst no longer, but am satisfied,

For sweeter are thy gifts than all beside.

Ere I parted from this very sweet being, I received an answer to my ballad, the which gave me more than a little very ardent rapture, for the enchanting fair one, whilst reading it, put her arms about my neck. And here it is:—

BALLAD

Ever blessed be the day,

Be the place and be the dwelling,

That hath ended my delay,

Shown the truth I shrank from telling.

Dear friend, behold

My love is yours, a costlier gift than gold:

To Love be praise, that first the bond hath knit,

For I am filled with perfect joy from it.

Since I yielded to thy sway

When thy heart with grief was swelling,

Swiftly speeding as he may

Joy is come, my care dispelling:

Now am I bold

To give thee love, that guerdons manifold

May heal thee from thy sorrow every whit,

For I am filled with perfect joy from it.

So my soul, with God for stay,

The new blissful years foretelling,

Finds in thee, for whom I pray,

Grace and gladness all excelling.

I that of old

Gave thee but sorry cheer and comfort cold,

Am straightway turned to serve thee, as is fit,

For I am filled with perfect joy from it.

When I had told

My love, my heart was yours to have and hold:

To grief I yield not, nor to blame submit,

For I am filled with perfect joy from it.

In suchwise was happiness granted to me, even as you hear, and I pursued it with joy and gladness. But fortune, who is ready, whensoe'er she can, to do harm to lovers, straightway thought to do me very grievous hurt, as I will relate in a few words.

It chanced, in a short while, that the lady who knew of our love, and who concealed our doings, had business at home, from the which loss would happen to her inheritance if she did not go there forthwith, wherefore, sad and sorrowful, she departed from the Court. And as for me, this caused me great grief, for I well knew that my lady would essay naught without her. And on this account I was much distressed, for, certes, I could in nowise rest without seeing her. And my lady knew this well, and I am persuaded that it was not otherwise with her. So she then bethought her of a lady who had likewise been in her service all her life, and who was prudent and discreet, and good, loyal, and reserved, although no longer did she live at Court. So she resolved to inquire of her if she was willing to return. Therefore without delay she wrote this letter to her, and received an answer from her.

The Duchess

To my very dear and good friend,

The Lady of La Tour.

Very dear and kind Friend,—Concerning my estate, be pleased to know that I am in health, and I pray God to grant the same to you. I write to you because of the desire which I have to see you, and to speak with you, for I have not forgotten the good and faithful service which you have alway rendered me, for the which I hold myself so much bounden to you, that I can never repay it. And be sure that you have a friend in me, and you can put this to the proof whensoe'er you will. Dear lady and friend, you well know how that I am controlled, and held in great subjection and fear, and am harshly treated, and that my lot is a very hard one, and allows me but little happiness, and that I have no friend to whom I can make plaint and tell my secret thoughts, the which I would not make confession of to any save to you, from whom I would not hide aught any more than I would from my confessor, for I know you to be so loyal, that I can trust in you. You must know, therefore, that it is a very grievous sorrow to a young heart always to live in disquiet, and devoid of happiness. So I would that you were near me, and I would tell you of very pleasing things, concerning the which, with good reason, I do not write to you. And thus I have great need of your aid and good counsel, wherefore I pray you, by all the love you bear me, that, as soon as you have read this letter, you so arrange your affairs that you may be ready to come to me within a week from this, and I will send to fetch you with all due honour. And do not be in anywise troubled about leaving your household, for I pledge you my faith to make so liberal recompense, that it will alway be to the advantage of you and yours. And I pray you not to fail me in this, and to send me, by the bearer of this letter, your favourable reply. I commend me to your daughter-in-law. Dear, kind friend, may the Holy Spirit have you in His keeping.

Written in my Castle, the eighth day of January.

And my lady despatched a messenger, and sent this letter to the lady whom she wholly regarded as her friend, and whom she much loved. And she sent a reply, the which disquieted me, for it was very much to my prejudice, and in this manner did she counsel her:—

My very revered Lady,—In the first place I send you my very humble respects, and may it please you to know that I have received your very loving and tender letter, for the which, with all my unworthy heart, I thank you, and in the which you do me so great honour as to have in remembrance the trivial services, in nowise worthy of your honoured and noble self, which I rendered you in the past, and thus I am beholden to you more than I can ever deserve. As concerns my going to you at this present, I very humbly beseech you, my very dear Lady, to hold me excused, for, on my faith, my daughter is so grievously sick that on no account can I leave her, and God knows how I am troubled because of her sickness. But since, my very revered Lady, I cannot hold speech with you as soon as I would, and I am bound to counsel you as to your conduct, as one who has been under my guidance from childhood until now, however unworthy I have been of this, methinks I should be wrong if I kept silence touching that which I knew might bring any trouble upon you if I failed to make it known to you. Wherefore, dear Lady, I write what follows, for the which I very humbly entreat of you in no way to bear me ill-will, for you may be assured that very great love, and the desire that your great renown and honour may ever increase, moves me to this. My Lady, I have heard certain rumours touching your conduct which grieve me from the bottom of my heart because of the fear I have of the ruin of your good name, to the which, as it seems to me, they tend, for it is right and fitting for every princess and high-born lady, since she is exalted in honour and estate above others, to exceed all others in goodness, wisdom, manners, disposition, and behaviour, to the end that she may be an ensample by the which other dames, and even all womankind, should regulate their conduct. And thus it is meet that she be devout toward God, and have a tranquil, gentle, and calm demeanour, and in her diversions be restrained and without excess, that she laugh with moderation and not without cause, and have a stately carriage, modest look, and dignified bearing, with a kindly response and a courteous word for every one, her dress and attire rich but not too affected, gracious in her welcome of strangers, in speech restrained and not too familiar, not hasty in judgment or fickle, never appearing harsh, capricious, or ill-humoured, or too difficult to serve, humane and kind to her waiting-women and servants, not too haughty, in giving bountiful within reason, knowing how to recognise those who are the most worthy in goodness and prudence, and her best servants, and to draw all these to her, and recompense them according to their deserts, not trusting or putting faith in flatterers, but recognising them, and driving them from her, not lightly believing gossip, not given to the habit of whispering either to stranger or to intimate friend in any secret or solitary place, and in particular not to any of her retainers or serving-women, so that none may be able to think that he knows more than another of her private affairs, never saying in jest to any one whomsoever, in the presence of others, aught which may not be understood of all, so that those hearing it may not imagine there to be some foolish secret between them, and keeping herself neither too much confined to her chamber, or to herself, nor too much in the sight of other folk, but sometimes retiring, and at other times appearing before others. And although the foregoing conditions, and all other usages befitting a noble princess, were aforetime observed by you, you now act quite otherwise, it is said, for you amuse yourself much more, and have become more communicative and mirthful than was your wont, and it is when the outward signs are changed, that one usually judges the disposition to be altered, and now you desire to be alone, and withdrawn from others save one or two of your waiting-women, and some of your dependants, with whom, even in the presence of others, you consult privately, and titter, and talk secretly, as if you well understood one another, and naught but the company of such pleases you, and the others can in nowise serve you to your liking, the which things and doings arouse envy in your other servants, and cause them to think that your heart is enamoured of some one. Ah, my very sweet Lady, for God's sake remember who you are, and the high position to which God has raised you, and consent not, for the sake of any foolish pleasure, to be forgetful of your soul and your honour, and do not put trust in the vain fancy which many young women have, who permit themselves to believe that there is no wrong in loving with tender passion provided this is not accompanied by any wrongful act (and I am convinced that you would prefer death to this), and that it makes life more pleasurable, and that one thus makes a man gallant and renowned for aye. Ah, my dear Lady, it is quite the reverse, and for God's sake do not deceive yourself, or let yourself be deceived as to this, and take warning from such noble ladies as you have seen in your time (and such there are), who, through being merely suspected of such love, have, without the truth ever becoming known, on this account lost both honour and life. And yet on my soul I am satisfied that they had neither sinned nor done aught that was wrong. Ne'ertheless their children have seen them reproached and thought lightly of. And however dishonourable such foolish love is in any woman, be she rich or poor, it is still much more unbecoming and harmful in a princess or a high-born lady, and the more so the more exalted she is, and the reason of this is just, for the fame of a princess extends everywhere, and hence, if there is any stain on her good name, it is more known of in foreign lands than in the case of simple folk, and, moreover, gives rise to doubts concerning their offspring, who are destined to be rulers in the land, and the princes of other folk. And it is a great misfortune when there is any suspicion that they are not the rightful heirs, and much trouble may come of it, for even if there has been no wrong-doing, this will in nowise be believed by those who have but heard it reported, “This lady is in love.” And because of a few tender glances, perchance given thoughtlessly and without evil intent, malicious tongues will pass judgment, and will add things about it the which were never done or thought of, and thus the story, the which is never diminished, but is ever being added to, passes from mouth to mouth. And thus it is the more necessary for a noble lady than for other women to pay great attention to all her words and ways and demeanour, and the reason of this is, that, in the presence of a noble lady, every one pays attention to her, both to hear what she will say, and also to attentively take note of all her doings. And thus the lady cannot look, speak, laugh, or jest, without all being put together, discussed, and borne in mind of many, and then reported broadcast. Bethink you, therefore, my very dear Lady, that it may have a very bad appearance when a high-born lady, and indeed any woman, becomes gay and mirthful, and willing to listen to amorous discourse, more than is her wont, and then, when for any reason she changes her mind, of a sudden becomes discontented, ungracious, and on her defence, and no one can serve her to her satisfaction, and she takes no trouble about her dress or apparel. Certes, folk then say that she must have been in love, but is so no longer. My Lady, this is in nowise demeanour becoming to a lady, for, whate'er may be her intentions, she should alway have a care so to demean and conduct herself, that such judgments cannot be passed on her, and although it may well be that, in a matter of love, it is difficult to maintain such moderation, the most sure way to this end is to wholly eschew and shun it. Thus you may know, dear Lady, that every noble lady, and every other woman likewise, should be far more desirous to acquire a fair name than any other treasure, for this reflects honour on her, and ever dures to her and her children. Revered Lady, as I have erewhile observed, I wholly realise and bear in mind that the influence which can dispose a young woman to incline to such love, is that youth, and ease, and indolence cause her to say to herself, “You are young, you must enjoy yourself, you can well love without wrong-doing, and this is in nowise evil when it is without sin, you will make a man valiant, no one will know of it, you will live more merrily because of it, and you will have won a true servant and a loyal friend, and, therefore, all your desire.” Ah, my Lady, for God's sake have a care that you be not deceived by such foolish fancies; for, as far as concerns happiness, be assured that in love affairs there is an hundred thousand times more of grief, of care, and of perilous risk, especially for the ladies, than there is of happiness. Moreover, whiles that love of itself brings in its train many divers troubles, the fear of the loss of honour, and that this may become known (the which makes such pleasure dearly bought), continually haunts the mind. And as to saying, “There can be no harm in this, since it will not result in sin,” alas, my Lady, no one can by any means be so sure of herself as to be certain that, however good her resolution may be, she will alway keep herself in restraint in the matter of love made in this wise, or that it will not be discovered, as I have said before. Of a truth, this is not possible, for never is there fire without smoke, but there is often smoke without fire. And to say, “I shall make a man valiant,” certes, I declare that it is very great folly to ruin oneself in order to advance another, even if he be made brave thereby, and surely does she bring ruin upon herself who degrades herself for the sake of exalting another. And as to saying, “I shall have gained a true friend and servant,” good God! in what manner could such a friend or servant advantage a lady? For if she were in any trouble, he would not dare concern himself in anywise on her behalf, for fear of her dishonour. Therefore how could such a servant, who would not risk himself in her service, be of profit to her? And though there are some who say they serve their ladies when that they achieve great things, either in arms or in other ways, I say that they serve themselves, since the honour and the profit of it remains to them, and in nowise to the lady. And yet again, my Lady, if you or any other would make excuse by saying, “Mine is a sad lot, the which allows me but little freedom and happiness, and because of this I can, without wrong-doing, have pleasure in another in order to dispel melancholy and to pass the time,” assuredly never, with submission to your honoured self and all others who speak thus, does such excuse avail aught, for very foolish is he who sets fire to his own house in order to burn that of his neighbour, but she who bears with such a husband patiently, and without discrediting herself, so much the more increases the good renown of herself and of her honour. And as to having pleasure, certes a noble lady, and indeed every woman, can, if she will, find, without such love as this, enough of lawful and fitting pleasures to the which to give herself up, and with the which to pass the time without melancholy. For those who have children, what more agreeable or delightful pleasure can be desired than to see them oft, and to have a care that they are well nourished and instructed as befits their noble birth and estate, and to train the daughters in suchwise that from childhood they may, from the example of good company, form the habit of living in a proper and seemly manner? But if the mother is not prudent in all ways, what sort of an ensample is she, alas, to the daughters? And for those who have no children, certes it is not unworthy of any noble lady, after she has had care for her household, to betake her to some work, in order to avoid idleness, either working fine linen or silken apparel with rare broidery, or other things of the which she can make fitting use, and such occupations are wise, and prevent idle thoughts. But in nowise do I say that a young and noble lady may not rightly divert herself, and laugh, and play, at seasonable times, even in the presence of lords and gentlemen, or that she may not, so far as is befitting to her position, do honour to strangers, to each one according to his rank, but this should be done so soberly, and in such modest fashion, that there be not a single glance, or laugh, or word, the which is not under due restraint, and within proper bounds, and she should ever be on her guard that it may not be possible to discover in her aught that is unworthy or unseemly, either in word, look, or behaviour. Ah, God! If every noble lady, and in truth every woman, rightly knew how such virtuous demeanour becomes her, the more would she be at pains to possess this adornment rather than any other whatsoever, for no precious jewel is there which can adorn her so well. And further, my very dear Lady, it remains to speak of the perils and difficulties which accompany such love, the which are without number. The first and greatest is that it angers God, and then if the husband or kinsfolk discover it, the woman is ruined, or falls under reproach, and never after has she any happiness. And again, even if this does not come to pass, let us consider the disposition of lovers, for though all were loyal, secret, and truthful (the which they by no means are, since it is well known that they are generally faithless, and, in order to deceive the ladies, say that which they neither think on nor would do), ne'ertheless of a surety it is true that the ardour of such love does not dure for long, even with the most loyal. Ah, dear Lady! be warned that truly you cannot conceive the troublous thought which dwells in her breast when it comes to pass that this love is at an end, and the lady, who has been blinded by the environment of foolish delight, grievously repents her when she perceives and meditates on the distractions and the divers perils the which she has ofttimes encountered, and how much she would, whatever it had cost her, that this had never chanced to her, and that she could not be thus reproached. And, moreover, you and every lady can see what folly it is to put one's person and one's honour at the mercy of the tongues, and in the power, of such servants, for they call themselves servants, although, for the most part, the ending of the service is such that, although they have made promise unto you, and have sworn, to keep the secret, they in no wise hold their peace concerning it, and in the end the ladies are ofttimes left with the reproach of such love, and the gossip of folk concerning it, or, at the very least, with the fear and dread in their hearts that those very ones in whom they have put their trust, talk of it, and make boast of it, to any one else who knows of the affair, and thus they are delivered over from freedom to bondage, and behold the end of such love! Do you not perceive, my Lady, that it seems to these servants to be greatly to their credit to say, and to make boast, that they are, or have been, loved of a very noble mistress, or a woman of high rank, and how that they suppress the truth concerning it? But God knows how they lie, and may He grant that, as regards you, my Lady, you may know it well, for you will have need to bear it in mind. And since, my Lady, you love ballads and ditties, I send you one touching on this subject, written by a clever master, if you will do me the favour to take notice of it. And the servants, too, who know your secret, and whom it behoves you to trust, think you, i' faith, that they keep silence concerning this, albeit you have made them swear to do so? Certes, the greater number of them are such that they would be very much vexed if it were not noised abroad that they have much greater intimacy and authority with you than have the others, and if they do not openly proclaim your secrets, they hint at them by means of divers covert signs, the which they think are duly observed. Good God, what a slave is the lady, and any other woman in the like case, who dares not reprove or blame her serving men or women, even if she sees that they behave them very ill, for that she perceives herself to be in their power, and that they have risen up against her in such arrogance that she dares not utter a word, and is thus constrained to endure at their hands that which she would not endure from any other! And what, think you, do those say who see and pay heed to this? These only pay attention to that which they see, and be sure that they ofttimes whisper it abroad, and if it chances that the lady is angered, or sends away her servant, God knows that all will be revealed, and made known everywhere. And yet it ofttimes happens that they are, and have been, the means and the cause of bringing into being this love, the which they have encouraged with zeal and great diligence, in order to gain for themselves either gifts, or offices, or other emoluments. Very honoured Lady, what shall I say concerning this? Be assured that as soon as one sifts the matter to the bottom, one discovers all the mischievous perils which this amorous life entails; and do not doubt this, for so it is. And because of this, very dear Lady, do not cast yourself into such peril, and if you have any thought of it, for God's sake withdraw from it before greater evil to you comes of it, for better is it to do this betimes than late, and late than never, and already you can see what will be said about it if that you persevere in your unwonted ways, when even now they are perceived, and in consequence of this are talked of in many places. Thus I know not what further to write to you, save that, to the utmost of my power, I humbly entreat of you not to take this from me in bad part, but may it please you to be assured of the good intent which constrains me to say it, and very much rather would I do my duty by loyally admonishing you, and causing you to be an-angered, than either counsel you to your ruin, or keep silence concerning it in order to have your goodwill. My Lady, be pleased to pay heed to my ballad, the which I enclose herewith. Very honoured Princess, and my dear Lady, I pray God to give you a happy and long life, and paradise.—Written at La Tour, this 18th day of January

Your very humble servant,

Sebille de Monthault, Lady of La Tour.

BALLAD

Most noble ladies, cherish your fair fame,

And for God's love the contrary eschew

Of good report, lest thus you come to blame:

Nor make your choice of all acquaintance new.

For some might tell (such evil tongues have they),

How wanton manners in your life they see,

Though never yet in any fault you lay:

And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

For little would it serve to bear the name

Of one whom many love, yet find for due

Nought but dishonour that from slanderers came

Telling abroad how in your works they knew

Your wantonness: so well it is alway

To hold aloof, ere any trial be,

From ill that follows after foolish play,

And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

Nay, be ye rather armed against the same

With perfect wit, so tirelessly they sue

To stain your honour, whence full often shame

Comes without cause, yet they to pleasure you

Feign courtesy: my warning may not stay,

So oft I hear how those ye hold in fee

Blame you no less: withdraw from these, I pray,

And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

Most noble ladies! be not wroth to-day

That I have ever counselled you to flee

These traitors: trust me, though no more I say,

And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

In such wise did the Lady of La Tour, who made me very sad by the letter the which she wrote, make answer to my Lady, who was sore dismayed by it albeit she was not displeased with her on account of it, but said forthwith, “Ah! if it had pleased our lord that she had been alway with me, she would have exhorted me wisely, and thus I should not have been beguiled by evil counsel, but ne'ertheless I shall abandon this, and abide me by her counsel, for I well perceive the grievous peril which pertains to a life of love, but it is meet that he who is oft in my thoughts should abandon it likewise.” Then she wrote a letter to me, even as is here set forth.

Sealed Letter

My good Friend,—It is indeed true that foolish love, the which deceives many, and the sincere pity which I had for your plaint, have led me much to forget that which I ought ever to have had in remembrance, the which is, to preserve my soul and mine honour. And I have fully come to see how that I have already exposed myself to many great dangers and perils in order to fulfil your youthful wishes and mine own. Thank God, however, that there has been no evil in it, nor ever will be as long as I live! Yet the world would in nowise believe this if any ill chance befell me, from the which may God preserve me! And I well perceive that whosoe'er pursues foolish love, is in nowise master of himself or of his demeanour, so that it comes to pass that he may be discovered, as you can see by the long letter which the good and prudent woman, the Lady of La Tour, has written to me, the which I send you in order that you may perceive the reason which constrains me to withdraw from it. For, when I gave myself up to this love, I took no thought for the perils into the which I rushed, but this wise lady has opened mine eyes to examine and consider my doings, and if I do this not, I shall be defamed and ruined, and this, dear friend, you could in nowise desire. And because of this, I beseech you to withdraw from it, and know that I ask this of you in spite of my love, and with my eyes full of tears, for none could be more loved than I love you. Therefore in nowise believe that this comes to pass through want of love, for I swear to you on my portion in Paradise, and make promise to you by every oath that can be made, that, as long as I live, you shall be my only friend, and you alone will I love alway, if this will content you, neither do I withdraw my love from you, for you have in nowise deserved this, nor could my heart, which loves you, consent to it, but it at least behoves you to cease from seeing me, because of the harm which might come to me through it, the which, I well know, will be very grievous to you, and full of sorrow, but whiles that your heart may be sad about it, in nowise will mine be happy. And I know not what more to say to you, nor can I write more, for my desolate heart, my eyes, and my face are suffused with tears, and I bid you farewell, my sweet Love.

Your sorrowing Lady.

And when that I had read this sad letter, my pulse and my colour failed me, and I became like unto one dead, and it was long ere I came to myself again, for I swooned because of the grief which I felt to hear that it was needful for me to keep away from my lady. Never had such a sorrow chanced to me, and so sorely did I weep because of this, that my heart was well nigh broken. And I read the long letter the which had set this thing agoing, and God knows how, when I read it, I cursed the old lady who had sent it. I would have drowned her but that this was not possible. And when I had longwhiles borne this grievous sorrow without that it was diminished, I wrote this letter, moistening it with my tears.

To the most noble of ladies.

Alas, my sweet and honoured Lady, my peerless love whom I serve, fear, obey, and worship! Where can I find words sufficing to declare unto you, and to make you wholly to know, my grievous sorrow? Tears and weeping so dull my mind and my memory, that I know not where I am, or what I do. Ah, my Lady! you have indeed discomforted me by your cruel letter, the which tells me that it behoves me to keep away from you! Certes it is indeed true, whatsoe'er the Lady of La Tour says of Lovers, that I am more to you than aught that you have in the world beside, and that I have made promise unto you (the which I will keep truly all my life), that, as far as in me lies, I will obey you in all things, without doing aught that is contrary to your wishes. But when your wish is that I withdraw me from this, I cannot obey, for I have abandoned my life to it. Thus it is not in my power to give it up, even if I die for this. And, dear Lady, as to obeying your command that I see you no more, if it is your pleasure that it be alway thus, it is meet that I resist this with all my might, since if you bid me do that which would kill me or drive me mad, I know of a truth that in this I cannot obey. And so that you may perceive that I desire your honour more than does she who has written so much to you concerning it, and to prevent any suspicion that you are the cause of my death, I shall go beyond the seas to end my days, and nevermore shall I return from thence, and I pledge you my faith that you will find this to be so. Alas! where has this one, in order to compass my ruin, discovered that already there is rumour and talk of our love? Truly she must have imagined it. Saving her reverence, it is not possible, for naught was ever conducted more prudently or secretly than, up to this present, our sweet love has been, and alway will be if God wills. For God knows that I would rather suffer death than do aught that would cause you dishonour. Ah, my Lady, my Lady! Shall I never see you again? If this must be so, God grant that I may lose my sight, and that I may never again look on anything, for naught beside could delight me. How could my heart dure and remain alive when it no longer has the joy the which it receives when it is nigh unto yours? Ah, woe is me! This thought, alas, is a lance which pierces right through my sorrowful heart. It cannot be that I must thus lose, and without cause, the tender comfort, the amorous delights, the pleasing glances, and the winsome words, the which I receive from you, and of which the sweet remembrance, which remained in my thoughts with the hope of their renewal, made me more gladsome and contented than aught beside. And, my very sweet Lady, since I must needs die without deserving it, one favour only do I beg of you, for the sake of all the love your tender and noble heart erewhiles had for me, and do not be so cruel to your poor servant as to deny it to him, the which is that, ere I take leave of you for ever, I may for once have speech with you, so that I may bid you farewell, and say adieu to all the delights the which you have so lovingly bestowed on me, for never, on my soul, have I thought on that which is evil, or contrary to your desires. Alas, my Lady! Well do I know how you do wrong to those desires, and unjustly cause them to endure misfortune, for boldly do I declare that this farewell is in nowise in accordance with their assent or wish. May this favour be vouchsafed to me, dear Lady. And I know not what more to say to you, but be assured that I shall obey you unto death. May it please you to make known to me forthwith what you would have me to do, and whether you would that I go beyond the seas as I have said, or what is your pleasure. And be pleased to pardon me that this letter is blotted with my tears, for, on my soul, it has not been possible for me to restrain them whiles that I have been writing it. Honoured Lady, I commend me to you more than I know how to say, and I pray God to grant you all good things that are to be desired.—Written in great grief, with tears and weeping.

Your poor lover, the most unhappy of men.

And I sent this letter to my lady, and wept sorely whilst delivering it. And I remained cast down, sad, and silent, making plaint unto myself. And I said in my grief—

BALLAD

Ah, Death, Death, Death, to thee I make my prayer!

Come, rend me from this dolorous world apart!

Life lures no longer: since my lady fair

Would have me shun her, let my hapless heart

Be very prey to pain and sorrow's sword.

Gladness I leave and all delight for aye,

And thee alone, O Death, have I implored

Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

Alas, alas, what doleful news is there!

Never to knight assailed with glaive or dart

Came heavier trouble than the woes I share,

I, who have gathered up in shame and smart

An evil greater than I may record:

Since now my love from all adventure high

Must needs withdraw, and death be my reward

Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

Ah, lady of mine, can'st thou such hardness dare

And suffer me in anguish to depart

For love of thee? Yet Love must witness bear

Who knoweth no age can show, nor any art,

Servant more faithful both in deed and word

Among all lovers that he might espy:

But my mishaps a worser end afford

Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

Ah, God of love, why sufferest thou, fair lord,

That thus in sorrow undeserved I die?

All things I leave, of all to be abhorred,

Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

In such manner as I have told you did I write in answer to my Lady. And when that she had opened my letter, and saw it so covered and defaced and blurred with tears, certes it was told unto me that she was much discomforted, and that as she read it, she wept so much, that the tears ran down her face. And then, of her grace, she wrote back to me in great haste, and charged the messenger that he lose no time in conveying the letter duly. And he pledged him not to tarry by the way until he had brought it to me. And the messenger hasted him all the night, and stayed him not until that he was come at daybreak to the gate of the Castle. Then he brought me the letter, the which calmed my grievous distress, and banished my sorrow. And great need had I of this, for certes I was like to die or to lose my reason. So listen now to the purport of the letter which she sent, and of the which my heart had great joy.

To the noblest and best of all,

My true and loyal friend.

My true, loyal, very kind and dear Friend,—It is the fact that, although I was fearful of losing mine honour, the which I ought to dread above all things, as is counselled, as you have been able to see, in the letter of the Lady of La Tour, to whom I am much beholden for it (for certes I know that she has said this for my well-being), it was against my wish that I wrote to you, in my last letter, that which I made known to you therein, for, my kind and gracious friend, I well perceive that Love cannot suffer us to part from one another, and I repent me much that I declared this unto you, for I know that you have had, and still have, much sorrow because of this. Wherefore I pray you to forgive me, and I beseech your pardon for it. And it much grieves me that our good friend, your cousin, is not beside you to cheer you. And I regret me that he is gone on so long a journey. So by all the influence I may have over you, and by the love you bear me, I entreat you in all things to possess your mind in peace as aforetime, for greatly do I fear me that you have become so sad, that I may not be in time to comfort you, and that some sickness (from the which may God preserve you), may overtake you. Therefore I shall have no ease until I have news of you. So I write to you in great haste, beseeching you to be cheerful and happy, for I have very good news to tell you, and this is that our good friend, in whom we trust, will be here within four days. So you shall come to see me, and I will keep you advised concerning this, and we will welcome one another heartily as heretofore. For, so help me God, even if it be my ruin, I cannot part from you, and I have hope that, by God's aid, our doings may be well hid, and also that you will alway guard mine honour well, for on this I rely. My sweet and dear Love, I pray God to give you perfect joy. Written in haste.

Your true and loyal friend.

And when I received this letter, I was wholly freed from my grief, and no longer did I weep, but instead I praised God for this very good news. And I answered the letter, and gave much thanks to my sweet lady, and I further besought of her that I might see her right soon, so that I might tell unto her the sorrow the which the letter I had received had caused me. And I know not wherefore I should rehearse more of this matter, for it is time for me to end. You have heard how that I had, without dishonour, such joy of love as I desired, and I gainsay him who would avouch that there was ever any wrong-doing or evil whatsoever in our love, or that there was aught in it by the which honour was violated, wherefore our love should be the more esteemed. Moreover I have told unto you the pain and the grief which I endured aforetime, and how that I persevered until my lady had pity on me. And now it is time this story were ended, for if I rehearsed all the adventures, some pleasing, and others painful, the which chanced to me in this love, and the evil and the good which came to me of it, perchance I should become wearisome, for I should have much to tell, and it would be a matter without end. But, to sum up briefly, I tell you that I ofttimes afterward with great delight saw the fair one in whom I put my trust, and joyously did I receive from her, in large measure, loving comfort the which still dwells in my memory. And for full two years did this dure, for she would not let me depart from out her country, and right well did this please me, for so ardent was I, that I cared for naught save to be near her. Thus I bethink me that I resorted thither more than was fitting, so that anger, stirred up by evil speaking, burst forth on account of our doings, and because of this, I was troubled and ill-at-ease, for I could not stay it, and thus I was no longer able to see my lady as was my wont, the which grieved me sorely. Moreover I was blamed by friends, and called recreant, in that I remained so much in retirement, and only frequented jousts and tourneys and feasts which were held near by, and not those at a distance. This, indeed, did not become one of noble birth, and thus I should be quite the most despicable of my lineage if that I remained there longer, and pursued not arms in many lands for to win praise and renown. So spake my kinsfolk, and I felt assured that they descanted to me thus for my good, but I feared me that it might be displeasing to my lady to do this without her consent, and my heart was exceeding sad.

And I besought of her that she would so contrive, that I might have speech with her, since, chiefly for the sake of her good name, it was needful that I should depart thence for awhile, and assuredly might she believe that never for a single day should I forget her, and thus I would go into Spain, whatever might come of it, and it was better to do this before worse happened to her. And moreover she should have in remembrance that I had made promise unto her that, for love of her, I would achieve so much, that in the end I should be known as a brave man.

And so much did I talk, that she scarce uttered a word, and for very short whiles did she remain, for at great risk was she come to a place where I was.

And there was much weeping and great dole and sad countenance at our parting, and scarce would she consent that I should go to the wars. And wetting her face and neck with tears, and kissing her in haste, I very fervently commended her to God, and thus I commended me to her a thousand times, and submitted myself to her will. And I made promise unto her that wheresoe'er I went, I would send tidings unto her, and thus she could send back word to me how it fared with her.

And thus I departed, weeping and in sad case at leaving my beloved one. And I joined a Spanish force, and was absent, and far from the fair one, for the space of a year, and then I came back, being moved thereto by a longing to see her. And when she heard of my return, she so contrived, that I had speech with her without this being known of others. And joyously was I received, and verily did we welcome one another heartily, and rejoice over our reunion.

Thus from time to time I went to meet her, but there was risk in my having speech with her, and so she came stealthily, in fear and trembling, for fear of being observed, by reason of which she was quite cast down. Therefore when I saw her so distraught, much of my joy was taken away, because of the peril to the which I perceived that she, for my sake, exposed her honour, and in the which she placed herself. And because of this, I undertook many journeys, and sailed beyond the seas for fear of evil-speaking. And in the manner did I spend ten years, and ofttimes did I go to and fro. And at times, when it was opportune, it chanced that I saw my dear lady.

And in suchwise did I explore many lands. And in a severe encounter I was made a prisoner of war, at the which my lady was disquieted. Thus I endured many misfortunes ere the ten years passed by. Even love brought many upon me, and saved me not from them, for albeit I never, on my soul, saw aught in my lady the which should have caused me to mistrust her, jealousy, which is like unto madness, brewed for me such a potion, that I became like unto one mad, for once, on my return from afar, I bethought me, as soon as I saw her, that her heart was changed toward me, and that, as it seemed to me, she had wholly cast me off, the which filled my heart with such grief, that I was mad with rage. Thus all my happiness was gone, and for longwhiles I could not calm or appease my heart, the which was sorely troubled, and my lady was so displeased with me on account of this, that for awhile I somewhat lost her favour. Moreover, if I may venture to say so, I once saw her a little jealous, the which distressed me much, for I knew not the reason of it, for God knows that neither in thought nor in demeanour was I ever false to her, nor did I so much as raise mine eyes to notice any other lady. But I well perceived that he whose heart is wholly possessed of the passion of love much needs become a prey to jealousy, for he who bears within him a great and perfect love, can scarce restrain him from it.

And many songs were written touching our affair, some sad, and some joyous; and for divers occasions I devised ballads, and lays, and plaints, and other conceits, of the which there was one that was joyous amongst ten which were sad, for such is the wont of the foolish heart which dissembles love; and my lady sent some to me in her turn when that she was able. And our ditties eased our troubles when that we were far from one another, for in such manner did we divert us in the hope of coming by something better, however long this might be in the coming.

And I have made known everything, from first to last, touching the love from the which, for full ten years, I had very sad and painful thoughts, but our love is in nowise ended, nor will it pass away until that our bodies perish. But slanderers (whom may God confound, for there are too many of them in the world) have forced me to abandon the fellowship of her to whom I had made promise of my whole love. And in this she shall not find me to fail. But I perceived that dishonour came to her because of me; wherefore I hated my life which dured so long, for every one gossiped about her. And in order to preserve her honour and her peace of mind, I shrank from seeing her whom I loved above all, but ne'ertheless, sorrowful and sad, I long made lament for that she was so blamed on my account. But notwithstanding, my body, my goods, and all that I have to bestow, are hers, and if it were needful, I would die for her, and this is no fable. So I pray Almighty God to give her peace, and honour, and a happy life, and perfect joy without end. And now my story is ended.

The Book called “The Duke of True Lovers” is set forth.

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