GEOFFREY CHAUCER

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?

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.

YOUR eyen two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beautè 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 beautè 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 beautè of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

SO hath your beautè 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 beautè fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne. Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed So greet beautè, that no man may atteyne To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne. So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

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.