"My paine is this, that nought so I desire,
That have I not, ne nothing like thereto
And ever setteth Desire mine herte on fire,
Eke on that other side where that I go,
What maner thing that may encrease my wo,
That have I ready unsought every where,
Me lacketh but my death, and then my bere.

"What nedeth to shew parcell of my paine?
Sith every wo, that herte may bethinke,
I suffer, and yet I dare not to you plaine,
For well I wote, though I wake or winke,

Ye recke not whether I flete or sinke;
And nathelesse yet my trouth I shall susteine
Unto my death, and that shall well be sene.
"This is to saine, I will be yours ever,
Though ye me slee by Crueltie your fo,
Algate my spirit shall never discever
Fro your service, fro any paine or wo.
Sith ye be yet dead, alas, that it is so!
Thus for your death maye wepe and plaine
With herte sore, and full of busie paine."

EXPLICIT.

"O THOU fiers God of armes, Mars the rede,
That in thy frosty countrey called Thrace,
Within thy grisly temples full of drede,
Honoured art as patrone of that place,
With thee Bellona, Pallas full of grace,
Be present, and my song continue and gie!
At my beginning thus to thee I crie.

"For it full depe is sonken in my minde
With pitous herte, in English to endite
This old story, in Latine which I finde,
Of

queene Annelida and false Arcite,
That elde, which all can frete and bite,
(And it hath freten many a noble story,)
Hath nigh devoured out of our memory.

"Be favourable eke thou Polimnia,
On Pernaso that hath thy sisters glade,
By Elicon, not far from Cirsa,
Singest with voice memorial in the shade,
Under the laurer, which that may not fade,
And do that I my ship to haven winne !
First follow I Stace, and after him Corinne."
Jamque domos patrias Cithiæ post aspera gentis,
Prælia laurigeo subeuntem Thesea curru,
Lætifici plausus missusque ad sidera vulgi, &c.
Whan Theseus with warres long and great,
The aspre folke of Cithe had overcome,
The laurer crowned in his chaire gold beat,
Home to his country houses is ycome,
For which the people blisful all and some,
So criden, that to the sterres it went,
And him to honouren did all hir entent.

Before this duke in sign of victory,
The trompes come, and in his baner large,
The image of Mars, and in token of glory,
Men might see of treasure many a charge,
Many a bright helm, and many a spere and targe,
Many a fresh knight, and many a blisful rout,
On horse and on foot, in all the field about.

Ipolita his wife, the hardy queene
Of Cithia, that he conquered had,
With Emily her young suster shene,
Faire in a chaire of gold he with him lad,

That all the ground about her chair she sprad
With brightness of beauty in her face,
Fulfilled of largesse and of grace.

With his triumph and laurer crowned thus,
In all the floure of fortunes yeving,
Let I this noble prince Theseus
Toward Athenes in his way riding,
And fonde I woll in shortly to bring
The slye way of that I gan to write,
Of queene Annelida and false Arcite.

Mars, that through his furious course of ire,
The old wrath of Juno to fulfill,

Hath set the peoples hertes both on fire
Of Thebes and Grece, and everich other to kill
With bloody speres, rested never still,
But throng now here, now there, among hem both,
That everich other slue, so were they wroth.

For whan Amphiorax and Tideus,
Ipomedon and Partinope also

Were dedde, and slain proud Campaneus,
And whan the wretched Thebans brethren two
Were slain, and king Adrastus home ygo,
So desolate stood Thebes and so bare,
That no wight could remedy his care.

And whan the old Creon gan espy
How that the blood royal was brought down,
He held the citee by his tyranny,
And did the gentils of that regioun
To been his friends, and dwell in the toun,
So what for love of him, and what for awe,
The noble folke were to the towne ydrawe.

Among all these, Annelida the queene
Of Ermony was in that towne dwelling,
That fairer was than the Sonne sheene,
Throughout the world so gan her name spring,
That her to see had every wight liking,
For as of trouth, is there none her liche
Of all the women in this world riche.

Yong was this queene, of twenty yere old,
Of middle stature, and of soch fairnesse,
That Nature had a joy her to behold,

And for to speaken of her stedfastnesse,
She passed hath Penelope and Lucresse,
And shortly if she may ben comprehended,
In her might nothing been amended.

This Theban knight eke sothe to sain,
Was yong, therto withall a lusty knight,
But he was double in love, and nothing plain,
And subtill in that craft over any wight,
And with his cunning wan this lady bright:
For so ferforth he gan her trouth assure,
That she him trusteth over any creature.

What should I sain? she loveth Arcite so
That whan that he was absent any throw,
Anone her thought her herte brast atwo,
For in her sight to her he bare him low,
So that she wende have all his herte yknow,
But he was false, it n'as but fayned chere,
As nedeth not soche crafte men to lere.

But neverthelesse, full mikell businesse
Had he, er that he might his lady winne,
And swore he would dien for distresse,

Or from his witte he said he would twinne :
Alas, the while! for it was routh and sinne,
That she upon his sorrowes would rue,
But nothing thinketh the false as doth the true.

Her fredome found Arcite in soch manere,
That all was his that she hath, moch or lite,
Ne to no creature made she cheer,
Further than it liked to Arcite,

There was no lack with which he might her wite,
She was so ferforth yeven him to please,
That all that liked him did her ease.

There n'as to her no maner letter sent,
That touched love, from any maner wight,
That she ne shewed him, or it was brent,
So plain she was, and did her full might,
That she n'il hide nothing from her knight,
Lest he of any untrouth her upbreyde;
Without bode his herte she obeyd.

And eke he made him jalous over her,
That what that any man had to her sayd,
Anon he would praien her to swere
What was that word, or make him yvell apaid,
Than wende she out of her wit have braid,
But all was but sleight and flatterie,
Without love he fained jelousie.

And all this tooke she so debonairly,
That all his will her thought it skilful thing,
And ever the lenger she loved him tenderly,
And did him honour as he were a king,
Her herte was to him wedded with a ring,
For so ferforth upon trouth is her entent,
That where he goth her herte with him went.

Whan she shal eat, on him is so her thought,
That well unneth of meate toke she keepe,
And whan she was to her rest brought,
On him she thought alway till that she slepe,
Whan he was absent, prively doth she wepe;
Thus liveth faire Annelida the queene,
For false Arcite, that did her all this tene,
This false Arcite, of his newfanglenesse,
For she to him so lowly was and trewe,

Tooke lesse deintee for her stedfastnesse,
And saw another lady proude and newe,
And right anon he clad him in her hewe,
Wote I not whether in white, reed, or grene,
And falsed faire Annelida the queene.

But neverthelesse, great wonder was it none
Though he were false, for it is the kind of man,
Sith Lamech was, that is so long agone,
To be in love as false as ever he can,
He was the first father that began
To loven two, and was in bigamye.
And he found tents first, but if men lye.

This false Arcite, somewhat must he faine,
Whan he was false, to coveren his tratourie,
Right as an horse, that can both bite and plaine,
For he bare her in honde of treacherie,

And swore he coude her doublenesse espye,
And all was falsenesse that she to him ment;
Thus swore this thefe, and forth his way he went

Alas, what herte might endure it,

For routhe or wo, her sorrow for to tell?
Or what man hath the cunning or the wit,
Or what man might within the chambre dwell,
If I to him rehersen shall the Hell

That suffreth fayre Annelida the queene,
For false Arcite, that did her all this tene?

She wepeth, waileth, and swouneth pitously,
To ground deed she falleth as a stone
Crampisheth her limmes crokedly,
She speketh as her witte were all agone,
Other colour than ashen hath she none,
Ne none other word speketh she moch or lite,
But "Mercy, cruell herte, mine Arcite."

And thus endureth, til that she was so mate
That she ne hath foot, on which she may sustene,
But forth languishing ever in this estate,
Of which Arcite hath neyther routhe ne tene,
His herte was elswhere newe and grene,
That on her wo, ne deineth him not to think,
Him recketh never whether she flete or sinke.

This newe lady holdeth him so narowe,
Up by the bridel, at the staves end,
That every word he dred it as an arowe,
Her daunger made him both bowe and bend,
And as her luste, made him turne or wend,
For she ne graunted him in her living,
No grace, why that he hath to sing.

But drove him forth, unneth list her know
That he was servaunt unto her ladyship,
But lest he were proude, she helde him lowe,
Thus serveth he, without meate or sip,
She sent him now to land, and now to ship,
And for she yave him daunger all his fill,
Therfore she had him at her owne will.

Ensample of this, ye thrifty women all,
Take hede of Annelida and false Arcite,
That for her list him her dere herte call,
And was so meke, therefore he loved her lite,
The kinde of mannes herte is to delite
On thing that straunge is, al so God me save,
For what they may not get, that wold they have.

Now turne we to Annelida ayen,
That pineth day by day in languishing,
But whan she saw that her ne gate no geyn,
Upon a day full sorrowfully wepying,
She cast her for to make a complaining,
And with her owne hand she gan it write,
And sent it to her Theban knight Arcite.

THE COMPLAINT OF ANNELIDA TO FALSE ARCITE.

"So thirled with the point of remembraunce,
The swerde of sorowe, whette with false pleasaunce,
Mine herte bare of blisse, and black of hew
That turned is to quaking all my daunce,
My sewerty is a waped countenaunce,
Sens it avayleth nought to ben trew:
For who so trew is, it shall her rew,

That serveth love, and doth her observaunce
Alway to one, and chaungeth for no new.

"I wote my selfe as well as any wight,
For I loved one, with all mine herte and might
More than my self an hundred thousand sith,
And called him my hertes life, my knight,
And was all his, as ferre as it was right,
And whan that he was glad, than was I blithe,
And his disease was my death as swithe,
And he ayen, his trouth hath me plight,
For evermore hys lady me to kithe.

"Now is he false alas, and causeles,
And of my wo he is so routhles,

That with a worde him list not ones daine,
To bring ayen my sorowfull herte in pees,
For he is caught up in another lees;
Right as him list, he laugheth at my paine,
And I ne can mine herte not restraine
For to love him yet alway nevertheles,
And of all this I n'ot to whom to plaine.

"And should I plaine, alas, the hard stounde,
Unto my foe, that yave mine herte a wounde,
And yet desireth that mine harme be more,
Now certes ferther woll I never found,
None other helpe, my sores for to sound,
My desteny hath shaped so full yore,
I woll none other medicine ne lore,
I woll ben aye there I was ones bound,
That I have said, be said for evermore.

"Alas, where is become your gentilnesse,
Your words full of pleasaunce and humblenesse,
Your observaunce in so lowe manere,
Your awayting, and your besinesse,
On me that ye called your maistresse,
Your soveraine lady in this worlde here?
Alas, is there neyther worde ne chere,
Ye vouchsafe upon mine hevinesse ?
Alas, your love, I buy it all to dere.

"Now certes swete, though that ye
Thus causelesse the cause be,
Of my deedly adversite,

Your manly reason ought it to respite,
To slee your frende, and namely me,
That never yet in no degre
Offended you, as wisely he

That all wote, of wo my soule quite.

"But for I was so playne, Arcite,
In all my workes much and lite,
And was so besie you to delite,
Myne honour save, meke, kinde, and fre,
Therefore ye put in me this wite:
Alas, ye retche not a mite,

Though that the swerde of sorow bite
My wofull herte, through your cruelty.

"My sweet foe, why do ye so for shame,
And thinke ye that furthered be your name,
To love a newe, and ben untrew aye,
And put you in slander now and blame,
And do to me adversitie and grame,
That love you most, God thou wost, alwaye?
Yet turne ayen, and yet be playne some daye,
And than shall this that now is mis, ben game,
And all foryeve, while I lyve may.

"Lo, herte myne, al this is for to saine,
As whether shall I pray or els plaine,
Which is the way to done you to be trewe!
For either mote I have you in my chaine,
Or with the deth ye mote depart us twaine,
There bethe none other meane wayes new,
For God so wisely on my soule rewe,
As verily ye slaine me with the paine,
That mowe ye see unfained on mine hewe.
"For thus ferforth have I my deth sought,
My selfe I murder with my privie thought,
For sorow and routh of your unkindnesse,
I wepe, I waile, I fast, all helpeth naught,
I voide joy that is to speake of aught,
I voide company, I flie gladnesse;
Who may avaunt her better of hevinesse,
Than I and to this plite have ye me brought,
Without gilte, me needeth no witnesse.

"And should I pray, and weiven womanhede,
Nay rather death, than do so foule a dede,
And aske mercy and giltlesse, what nede!
And if I plaine what life I lede,
You recketh not, that know I out of drede,
And if I unto you mine othes bede
For mine excuse, a scorne shall be my mede,
Your chere floureth, but it woll not sede,
Full long agon I might have taken hede.

"For though I had you to morow agayne,
I might as well hold Aprill from raine,
As holde you to maken stedfast.
Almighty God, of trouth the soverain,
Where is that trouth of man, who hath it slayn?
She that hem loveth, shall hem find as fast,
As in a tempest is a rotten mast;

Is that a tame beest, that is aye fayne
To renne away, whan he is lest agast?

"Now mercy sweete, if I missay,
Have I aught said out of the way,
I n'ot, my witte is all away,

I fare as doth the songe of chantepleure,
For now I plaine, and now I play,
I am so mased that I dey,
Arcite hath borne away the key
Of all my world, and my good aventure.

"For in this world there is no creature,
Walking in more discomfiture,
Than I, ne more sorowe endure,

For if I sleepe a furlonge way or tway,
Than thinketh me that your figure
Before me stant clad in asure,
Efte to profre a newe assure,

For to ben trewe, and mercy me to pray.

I crie;

"The long night, this wonder sight ydrie,
That on the day for such affray I die,
And of all this right naught ywis ye retche,
Ne nevermore mine eyen two ben drye,
And to your routh, and to your trouth
But well away, to ferre been they to fetch !
Thus holdeth me my desteny a wretch,
But me to rede out of this drede or gie,
Ne may my wit (so weake is it) not stretch.
"Than end I thus, sith I may do no more,
I yeve it up for now and evermore,

For I shall never efte putten in balaunce
My sikernesse, ne lerne of love the lore,
But as the swan, I have herde say full yore,
Ayenst his deth woll sing in his penaunce,
So sing I here the destinie and chaunce,
How that Arcite, Annelida so sore
Hath thrilled with the point of remembraunce."

Whan that Annelida this wofull queene,
Hath of her hand written in this wise,
With face deed, betwixt pale and greene,
She fell a swoune, and sithe she gan to rise,
And unto Mars avoweth sacrifise
Within the temple, with a sorowful chere,
That shapen was, as ye may plainly here.

EXPLICIT.

THE lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Th'assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering,
The dreadful joy alway that flit so yerne,
All this mean I by Love, that my feeling
Astonieth with his wonderful werkyng,
So sore ywis, that whan I on him think,
Naught wete I wel, whether I flete or sink.

For all be that I know not Love in dede,
Ne wot how that he quiteth folke hir hire,
Yet happeth me full oft in bookes rede
Of his myracles, and of his cruell ire,
There rede I well, he woll be lorde and sire:
I dare not say his strokes be sore,
But God save such a lorde, I can no more.

Of usage, what for lust and what for lore,
On bookes rede I of, as I you told,
Bnt wherfore speake I all this? naught yore
Agon, it happed me to behold

Upon a booke was ywritten with letters old,
And thereupon a certain thing to lerne,
The long day full fast I radde and yerne.

For out of the old fieldes, as men saithe,
Cometh al this new corne fro yere to yere,
And out of old bookes, in good faithe,
Cometh all this new science that men lere,
But now to purpose, as of this mattere,
To rede forth it gan me so delite,
That all that day me thought it but a lite.

This booke of which I make mencion,
Entitled was right thus, as I shall tell,
Tullius of the dreame of Scipion :
Chapiters seven it had, of Heaven and Hell,
And Earth, and soules that therein dwell,
Of which as shortly as I can it treate,
Of his sentence I woll you saine the greate.

v. 1-70.

First telleth it, whan Scipion was come
In Affricke, how he meteth Massinisse,
That him for joy, in armes hath ynome,
Than telleth he hir speach and all the blisse,
That was betwixt hem til the day gan misse,
And how his auncester Affrikan so dere,
Gan in his slepe that night til him appere.

Than telleth it, that from a sterrie place,
How Affrikan hath him Cartage shewed,
And warned him before of all his grace,
And said him, what man lered eyther lewde,
That loveth common profite well ithewde,
He should into a blissfull place wend,
There as the joy is without any end.

Than asked he, if folke that here been dede
Have life, and dwelling in another place?

And Affrikan said Ye, without any drede,
And how our present lives space

Ment but a maner death, what way we trace,
And rightfull folke, shull gon after they die
To Heaven, and shewed him the Galaxie.

Than shewed he him the little earth that here is
To regard of the Heavens quantite,
And after shewed he hym the nine speris,
And after that the melodie heard he,
That commeth of thilke speres thrise three,
That welles of musicke been and melodie
In this world here, and cause of armonie.

Than said he him, sens Earth was so lite,
And full of tourment, and of harde grace,
That he ne should him in this world delite :
Than told he him, in certain yeres space,
That every sterre should come into his place,
There it was first, and all should out of mind,
That in this world is done of all mankind.

Than prayed him Scipion, to tell him all
The way to come into that Heaven blisse,
And he said: "First know thy selfe immortall,
And loke aie besely that thou werche and wisse
To common profite, and thou shalt not misse
To come swiftly unto that place dere,
That full of blisse is, and of soules clere.

"And breakers of the law, soth to saine,
And likerous folke, after that they been dede,
Shall whirle about the world alway in paine
Til many a world be passed out of drede,
And than, foryeven all hir wicked dede,
Than shullen they come to that blisfull place,
To which to comen, God send thee grace."

The day gan failen, and the darke night
That reveth beastes from hir businesse,
Beraft me my booke for lacke of light,
And to my bedde I gan me for to dresse,
Fulfilled of thought and besie heavinesse,
For both I had thyng, which that I n'old,
And eke I ne had that thing that I wold.

But finally my spirite at last,
Forweary of my labour all that day,
Tooke rest, that made me to slepe fast,
And in my sleepe I mette, as that I say,
How Affrikan, right in the selfe aray
That Scipion him saw, before that tide,
Was come, and stode right at my beds side.

The wearie hunter sleeping in his bedde,
The wood ayen his mind goeth anone,
The judge dremeth how his plees be spedde,
The carter dremeth how his cartes gone,
The rich of gold, the knight fights with his fone,
The sicke mette he drinketh of the tonne,
The lover mette he hath his lady wonne.

Can I not saine, if that the cause were

For I had radde of Affrikan beforne,

That made me to mete that he stood there,
But thus said he: "Thou hast thee so well borne
In looking of mine old booke all to torne,
Of which Macrobie raught not a lite,
That some dele of thy labour would I quite."

Citherea, thou blisful lady swete,

That with thy fire brond dauntest whan thee lest,
That madest me this sweven for to mete,
Be thou my helpe in this, for thou maist best,
As wisely as I seigh the north northwest,
Whan I began my sweven for to write,
So yeve me might to rime it and endite.

This foresaid Affrikan me hent anone,
And forthwith him to a gate brought,
Right of a parke, walled with grene stone,
And over the gate, with letters large ywrought,
There were verse ywritten as me thought
On either halfe, of full great difference,
Of which I shall you say the playne sentence:
"Through me men gon into the blisful place
Of hertes heale and dedly woundes cure,
Through me men gon into the well of grace,
There grene and lusty May shall ever endure,
This is the way to all good aventure,

Be glad thou reader, and thy sorow off cast,
All open am I, passe in and spede thee fast."

"Through me men gon" (than spake the other side) "Unto the mortall strokes of the speare, Of which Disdaine and Danger is the gide; There never tree shall fruit ne leaves beare, This streme you ledeth to the sorowful were, There as the fish in pryson is all dry, The eschewing is onely the remedy."

These verses of gold and asure ywritten weare,
Of which I gan astonied to behold,

For with that one encreased all my feare,
And with that other gan my herte to bolde,
That one me hette, that other did me colde,
No wit had I for errour for to chese,
To enter or flie, or me to save or lese.

Right as betwene adamants two,
Of even weight, a peece of yron set
Ne hath no might to move ne to ne fro,
For what that one may hale that other let,
So fared I, that I n'ist where me was bet
To entre or leave, till Affrikan my gide,
Me hent and shove in at the gates wide.

And said, "It standeth written in thy face,
Thine errour, though thou tell it not me,
But dread thee not to come into this place,
For this writing is nothing meant by thee,
Ne by none, but he Love's servaunt bee,
For thou of love hast lost thy tast of
gesse,
As sicke men hath, of swete and bitternesse.

"But natheles, although thou be dull,
That thou canst not doe, yet mayst thou see,
For many a man that may not stand a pull,
Yet liketh it him at the wrestlyng for to be,
And demeth yet, whether he doe bet, or he,
And if thou haddest connyng for t'endite,
I shall thee shew matter of to write."

And with that my hand in his he toke anon,
Of which I comfort caught, and went in fast,
But Lord so I was glad, and well begon,
For over all, where I mine eyen cast,
Were trees clad with leaves, that aie shal last
Eche in his kind, with colour fresh and grene,
As emeraude, that joy it was to sene.

The bilder oke, and eke the hardy asshe,
The piller elme, the coffre unto caraine,
The boxe pipe tree, holme to whippes lasshe,
The sailing firre, the cipres death to plaine,
The shooter ewe, the aspe for shaftes plaine,
The olive of peace, and eke the dronken vine,
The victor palme, the laurer too divine.

A gardein saw I full of blosomed bowis,
Upon a river in a grene mede,
There as sweetnesse evermore inough is,
With floures white, blewe, yelowe, and rede,
And cold welle streames, nothing dede,
That swommen full of smale fishes light,
With finnes rede, and scales silver bright.

On every bough the birdes heard I sing,
With voice of angell in hir armonie,
That busied hem hir birdes forth to bring,
The little pretty conies to hir play gan hie,
And further all about I gan espie

The dredeful roe, the buck, the hart, and hind,
Squirrels, and beastes small of gentle kind.