This newè lady holdith him fo narowe
Up by the bridil at the ftav'is ende,
That every worde he dred it as an arowe;
Her daungir made him bothè bowe and bende,
And as her lufte madin him turne or wende,
For fhe ne grauntid him in her living
No grace why that he hath thereof to finge,
But drove him forth; unneth lift her to knowe
That he was servaunt to her ladyship,
But lefte that he were proude fhe held him lowe;
Thus fervith he withoutin mete or fip;
She fente him nowe to lande and nowe to ship,
And for the yave him daungir al his fil
Therfore fhe had him at her ownè wil.
Enfample' of this, ye thriftie women al,
Take hede of Annelida' and falfe Arcite,
That for her lift him her dere hertè call,
And was fo meke, therefore he loved her lite;
The kinde of mann 'is herte is to delite
On thing that ftraunge is, al fo God me fave,
For what they may not get that wold they have. 203
Nowe turne we to Annelida ayen,
That pinith day by day in languishing;
But whan fhe fawe that her ne gate no geyn,
Upon a day ful foro'wfully weping
She caft her for to make a complaining,
And with her ownè hande fhe gan it write,
And fente it to her Theban knight Arcyte.
The Complaint of Annelida to falfe Arcite.
So thirlid with the point of remembraunce
The fwerde of forowe, whette with false plesaunce,
Myne hertè bare of bliffe and black of hewe,
That turnid is to quaking all my dauńce,
My fewertye in wapid countinance,
Sens it availith nothing to ben trewe,
For who fo trewe is certes it fhall her rewe
That fervith Love, and dothe her obfervaunce
Alway to one, and chaungith for no newe.
I wote my felfe as well as any wight,
For I loved one with al min hert and might,
More than my self an hundred thousande fith,
And callid him my hert'is lyfe, my knight,
And was al his as ferre as it was right,
And whan that he was glad than was I blithe,
And his difefe ywas my dethe as swithe,
And he ayen his trouthe hath to me plight
For evirmore his lady me to kithe.
Nowe is he falfe, alas! and caufèles,
And of my wo he is fo routhèles
That with a worde him lift not onis daine
To bring ayen my forowful herte in pees,
For he is caught up in an othir lees;
Right as hym lyft he laughith at my paine,
And I ne can min hertè not restraine
For to love him yet alway nertheles,
And of all this I n'ot to whom to plaine.
Volume XII,
And fulde I plain, alas the hardè flounde!
Unto my foe that yave myn herte a wounde,
And yet defirith that myn harme be more?
Now certis ferthir woll I nevir founde
None othir helpe my foris for to founde,
My Destiny hath shapid so ful yore,
I woll none othir medècyne ne lore,
I woll ben aye there I was onis bounde,
That I have faid be faid for evirmore.
Alas! where is become your gentillneffe,
Your wordes full of plesaunce and humblenesse,
Your obfervaunce in fo lowe a manere,
Your awaitinge, and eke your besinesse,
On me, that ye tho callid your maistresse,
Your fovèraine lady in this worlde here?
Alas! is there now neithir worde ne chere
Ye vouchfafin upon myn hevineffe?
Alas! your love I bye it al to dere!
Nowe certis, fwete Arcitè! though that ye
Thus caufèleffe the rufull cause ybe
Of all my pyne and dedly' adverfite,
Your manly reafon ought it to respite
To fle your fothefast frende, and namely me,
Which that have nevir yet in no degre
Offendid you in ought, as wifly he
That all thinges wote of wo my foulè quite.
But for I was fo plain to the Arcite
In all my wordeş and workis moche and lite,
And was fo befy aye you to delite,
Myne honour only save, meke, kinde, and fre,
Therfore, Arcite, ye put in me this wite:
Alas! alas! ye rechin not a mite
Though that the percing swerde of forow byte
My woful hert thorough your cruilte.
My fwetè foe! why do ye fo for shame?
And thinkin ye that furthered be your name
To lovin a newe and ben untrewe aye,
And putin you in flaundir nowe and blame,
And do to me adversyte and grame
That love you moft, God thou wetift alwaye?
Yet turne ayen, and yet be plaine some daye,
And then shall this that now is mis ben game,
And al forgevin whilis I lyve maye.
Lo, hertè myne! al this is for to faine,
As whethir fhal I praye or ellis plaine?
Which is the way to done you to be trewe?
For eithir mote I have you in my chaine
Or with the deth ye mote depart us twayne,
There beth none othir mene ne wayis newè,
For God fo wyfely on my foulè rewe
As verily ye flaine me with the paine,
That mowe ye fe unfainid on mine hewe.
For thus ferforth have I my deth yfought,
My felfe I murdir with my privie thought;
For forowe' and routhe of your unkindènesse
I wepe, I waile, I fast ; al helpith naught;
I voide alle joy that is to speak of aught,
I voide alle company, I flye gladneffe:
Who may avaunt her bet of hevineffe
Than I? and to this plite have ye me brought
Withoutin gilte; me nedith no witnesse.
And fhoulde I pray and weivin womanhede?
Nay, rathir deth than do so foule a dede ;
And aske mercy and giltèleffe? what nede?
And if that I complaine what life I lede
You reckith not, that know I out of drede;
And if I unto you mine othis bede
For mine excufe, a fcorne fhal be my mede;
Your chere yflourith but it woll not fede;
Ful longe agon I might have takin hede:
For though I had you to morowe againe
I might as wel holde Aprilis from raine
As holdin' you to makin you stedfast:
Almyghty God! of trouthe the fovèraine,
Wher is the trouth of man? who hath it flaine?
She that 'hem lovith fhall 'hem finde as faft
As in a tempeft is a rottin mast.
Is that a tame beft that is evir faine
To renne away when he is left agaft?
Nowe mercy, fwete Arcite! if I miffay;
Whethir have I aught faid out of the way
I n'ot; my witte is wastid al away:
I fare as doth the fonge of chantepleure,
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