CAP. XVIII. OF THE DOLOROUS AND LOWLY DISPUTACION BETWENE LA BEL PUCELL AND GRAUNDAMOURE.

Councell and I than rose ful quickely And made us redy on her way to walke, In our clenly wede apparayled properly. What I wolde saye I dyd unto hym talke, Tyl on his boke he began to calke How the sonne entred was in Gemyne; And eke Dyane, ful of mutabilite,

Entred the Crab, her propre mancyon, Than ryght amyddes of the Dragons hed; And Venus and she made conjuncyon. Frome the combust way she had her so sped, She had no let that was to be dredde, The assured ayre was depaynted clere With golden beames of fayre Phebus spere.

Than forth so went good Counsell and I, At vi. a clocke, unto a garden fayre; By Musykes toure walked most goodly, Where La Bell Pucell used to repayre In the swete mornyng for to take the ayre Among the floures of aromatyke fume, The mysty ayre to exyle and consume.

And at the gate we met the portresse, That was right gentill, and called Curteysy, Whych salved us wyth wordes of mekenesse, And axed us the veraye cause and why Of our comynge to the gardeine sothel? Truly, saide we, for nothyng but well, A lytel to speke with La Bell Pucell.

Truly, quod she, in the garden grene Of many a swete and sundry floure She maketh a garlonde that is veray shene; Wyth true loves wrought in many a coloure, Replete with swetenes and dulcet odoure; And all alone, wythout company, Amyddes an herber she sitteth plesauntly.

Nowe stande you styl for a lytle space, I wyll let her of you have knowledgynge. And ryght anone she went to her grace, Tellyng her than how we were comynge, To speke wyth her gretly desyrynge. Truly, she sayd, I am right well content Of theyr comyng to know the hole entent.

Then good Curteysy, wythout taryenge, Came unto us wyth all her diligence, Prayeng us to take our entryng And come unto the ladies precence, To tell your erande to her excellence. Than in we wente to the garden gloryous, Lyke to a place of pleasure most solacyous.

Wyth Flora paynted and wrought curyously, In divers knottes of marvaylous gretenes; Rampande lyons stode up wondersly, Made all of herbes with dulcet swetenes, Wyth many dragons of marvaylos likenes, Of dyvers floures made ful craftely, By Flora couloured wyth colours sundry.

Amiddes the garden so moche delectable There was an herber fayre and quadrante, To paradyse right well comparable, Set all about with flours fragraunt; And in the myddle there was resplendyshaunte A dulcet spring and marvaylous fountaine, Of golde and asure made all certaine.

In wonderfull and curious similitude There stode a dragon, of fyne golde so pure, Upon his tayle of myghty fortitude, Wretched and skaled al wyth asure, Havyng thre hedes divers in fygure, Whych in a bathe of the sylver grette Spouted the water that was so dulcette.

Besyde whiche fountayne, the moost fayre lady La Bel Pucel was gayly syttyng; Of many floures fayre and ryally A goodly chaplet she was in makynge. Her heer was downe so clerely shynynge, Lyke to the golde late purifyed with fyre, Her heer was bryght as the drawne wyre.

Lyke to a lady for to be moost trewe, She ware a fayre and goodly garment, Of most fyne velvet, al of Indy blewe, Wyth armynes powdred bordred at the vent. On her fayre handes, as was convenient, A payre of gloves ryght sclender and softe. In approchyng nere I did beholde her oft.

And whan that I came before her presence, Unto the ground I dyd knele adowne; Sayeng: O lady! moost fayre of excellence, O stere so clere of vertuous renowne! Whose beaute fayre in every realme and towne, Indued wyth grace and also wyth goodnes, Dame Fame the her selfe doth evermore expresse.

Please it your grace for to gyve audyence Unto my wofull and pitous complaynte; How fervent love, wythout resystence, My careful herte hath made low and faynte, And you therof are the hole constraynt; Your beauty truly hath me fettered faste, Wythout your helpe my life is nere hand paste.

Stande up, quod she; I marvayle of this cace, What sodayne love hath you so arayde Wyth so great payne your heart to embrace? And why for me ye should be so dismayde? As of your lyfe ye nede not to be afrayde. For ye of me now have no greater awe, But whan ye lyst ye may your love wythdraw.

Than stode I up, and right so did she, Alas! I sayd than, my heart is so set, That it is yours, it may none other be; Your selfe hath caught it in so sure a net, That if that I may not your favour get, No doubt it is, the great payne of love May not aswage tyl death it remove.

Truely, quod she, I am obedient Unto my frendes whych do me so guyde; They shal me rule as is convenient, In the snare of love I wyl nothyng slyde, My chaunce or fortune I wyl yet abide. I thanke you for your love right humbly, But I your cause can nothing remedy.

Alas! madame, yf I have enterprysed A thyng to hye truly for my degre, All that causes whych I have commysed Hath ben on fortunes gentyl unyte, Trustyng truely that she wold favour me. In this case wherfore now excuse Your humble servaunte, and not me refuse.

Ha, ha! what vayleth all your flattery? Your fayned wordes shall not me appese To make myne herte to enclyne inwardly; For I my selfe nowe do nothynge suppose But for to prove me you flatter and glose. You shall not dye as longe as you speke, There is no love can cause your herte to breke.

I wolde, madame, ye hadde prerogatyve To knowe the prevyte of my perfyte mynde, How all in payne I lede my wofull lyfe; Than, as I trowe, ye wolde not be unkynde, But that some grace I myght in you fynde, To cause myne herte, whyche you fetred sure Wyth brenninge cheynes, suche wo to endure.

By veraye reason I may give judgement, That it is guyse of you everychone To fayne you sicke wyth subtyll argument, Whan to your lady ye list to make your mone: But of you true is there fewe or none. For all your payne and wordes eloquent, Wyth dame Repentaunce I will not be shent.

O swete madame! now all my desteny Unhap and happy, upon you doth growe: Yf that you call me unto your mercy Of all happy the most happy, I trow, Than shall I be, of hye degre or lowe; And yf ye lyste so me than to forsake, Of all unhappy none shal be my make.

Your fortune on me is not more applyed, Than upon other, for my minde is fre; I have your purpose oft ynoughe denyed, You knowe your answere now certayne; What nede your wordes of curyosyte? Wo we here no more, for thou shalt not spede; Go love another where ye may have mede.

That shall I not; though that I contynewe All my lyfe in payne and hevynes, I shall not chaunge you for none other new; You are my lady, you are my masteres, Whome I shall serve with all my gentylnes. Exyle him never from your hert so dere, Whyche unto hys hath sette you most nere.

The minde of men chaungeth as the mone. If you mete one whyche is fayre and bryght, Ye love her best tyll ye se, right soone, An other fayrer unto your owne syght. Unto her than your minde is tourned ryght, Truely your love, though ye make it straunge, I knowe full well ye wyl often chaunge.

Alas! madame, nowe the bright lodes sterre Of my true herte, where ever I go or ryde, Thoughe that my body be from you aferre, Yet my herte onely shall wyth you abyde, Whan than you lyst ye may for me provyde.

Nay, truly, it can nothyng be myne, For I therof take no possessyon; Your heart is your by substancyall lyne, It is not in my domynacyon. Love where ye list; at every season Your heart is fre, I do not it accept: It is your owne, I have it never kept.

Alas! madame, ye may say as ye liste, With your beaute ye toke mine hert in snare; Your lovely lokes I coude not resyst, Your vertuous maner encreaseth my care, That of all joye I am devoyde and bare. I se you ryght often when I am aslepe, And whan I wake do sygh with teres depe.

So great deceyt amonge men there is, That harde it is to finde one full stable; Ye are so subtil and so false, ywis: Your great deceyte is nothing commendable. In storyes olde it is well provable How many ladyes hath bene right falsely Wyth men deceyved yll and subtylly.

O goodd madame! though that they abused Them to theyr ladyes in theyr great deceyte, Yet am I true; let me not be refused: Ye have me taken wyth so fayre a bayte, That ye shall never out of my conceyte. I can not wrynche by no wyle nor croke, My heart is fast upon so sure a hoke.

Ye, so sayd they, tyll that they had their wyll; Theyr wyll accomplysshed, they dyd fle at large; For men say wel, but they thinke full yll. Though outwarde swetenes your tonge doth enlarge, Yet of your heart I never can have charge; For men do love, as I am right sure, Nowe one, now other, after theyr pleasure.

All that, madame, I knew ryght perfetly, Some men there be of that condicyon; That them delyte often in novelty, And many also love perfeccyon. I cast all suche noveltes in objection; My love is set upon a perfet grounde, No falshed in me truly shal be founde.

Ye saye full well, yf ye meane the same; But I in you can have no confydence; I thinke right well that it is no game To love unloved wyth percynge influence. You shall in me fynde no suche neclygence To grante you love, for ye are unthryfty, As two or thre to me doth specify.

Was never lover without enemies thre, As Envy, Malyce, and Perturbaunce? Theyr tongues are poyson unto amyte; What man on live can use suche governaunce To attayne the favoure withouten varyaunce Of every persone, but right pryvely Behinde his backe some sayth unhappely?

Trouthe it is; but yet, in this cace, Your love and myne is full ferre asunder: But thoughe that I do your herte so race Yf I drede you it is therof no wonder; Wyth my frendes I am so sore kepte under, I dare not love but as they accorde, They thynke to wedde me to a myghty lorde.

I knowe, madame, that your frendes all Unto me sure wyll be contraryous; But what for that? your selfe in speciall Remembre there is no love so joyous As is your owne to you most precyous; Wyll you gyve your youthe and your flourynge aege To them agaynst your mynde in maryage?

Agaynst my mynde, of that were I lothe, To wed for fere, as them to obey; Yet had I lever they were somwhat wrothe, For I my selfe do here the locke and kaye Yet of my mynde, and wyll do many a daye. Myne owne I am, what that I lyste to do I stand untyed, there is no joye therto.

O swete lady! the good perfyte sterre Of my true herte, take ye now pyte; Thynke on my payne whiche am tofore you here, Wyth your swete eyes beholde you and se, How thought and wo, by great extremyte, Hath chaunged my hue into pale and wanne: It was not so whan I to love began.

So, me thynke, it doth right well appere By your coloure that love hath done you wo; Your hevy countenaunce and your dolefull chere; Hath love suche myght for to aray you so In so short a space? I marvayle moche also That ye wolde love me so sure in certayne, Before ye knewe that I wolde love agayne?

My good dere herte! it is no mervayle why; Your beaute cleare and lovely lokes swete My herte dyde perce with love so sodaynly At the fyrste tyme that I dyde you mete; In the olde temple whan I dyde you grete, Your beaute my herte so surely assayde, That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde.