Than said he thus, " Mine hertes lady sweete,
Ye know well my mischief in that place,
For sikerly, till that I with you meete,
My life stant there in aventure and grace,
But whan I see the beaute of your face,
There is no drede of death may do me smert,
For all your luste is ease to mine herte."

She hath so great compassion of her knight,
That dwelleth in solitude till she come,
For it stode so, that ilke time, no wight
Counsailed him, ne said to him welcome,
That nigh her wit for sorow was overcome,
Wherefore, she spedded as fast in her way,
Almost in one day as he did in tway.

The great joy that was betwix hem two,
Whan they be mette, there may no tong tel,
There is no more but unto bedde they go,
And thus in joy and blisse I let hem dwell,
This worthy Mars, that is of knighthood well,
The floure of fairnesse happeth in his arms,
And Venus kisseth Mars, the god of arms.

Sojourned hath this Mars, of which I rede,
In chambre amidde the palais prively,
A certaine time, till him fell a drede
Through Phebus, that was commen hastely,
Within the palais yates sturdely,

With torch in hond, of which the stremes bright
On Venus chambre knockeden ful light.

The chambre there as lay this fresh queene,
Depainted was with white boles grete,
And by the light she knew that shon so shene,
That Phebus cam to bren hem with his hete;
This sely Venus, ny dreint in teares wete,
Enbraseth Mars, and said, " Alas, I die,
The torch is come that al this world wol wrie."

Up sterte Mars, him list not to sleepe,
Whan he his lady herde so complaine,
But for his nature was not for to weepe,
Instede of teares, from his eyen twaine
The firy sparcles sprongen out for paine,
And hente his hauberke that lay him beside,
Flie wold he nought, ne might himself hide.

He throweth on his helme of huge weight,
And girt him with his swerde, and in his honde
His mighty speare, as he was wont to feight,
He shaketh so, that it almost to wonde,
Full hevy was he to walken over londe,
He may not hold with Venus company,
But bad her flie least Phebus her espy.

O woful Mars, alas! what maist thou sain,
That in the palais of thy disturbaunce
Art left behind in peril to be slain?
And yet there to is double thy penaunce,
For she that hath thine herte in governance,
Is passed halfe the stremes of thine eyen,
That thou nere swift, wel maist thou wepe and crien.

Now flieth Venus in to Ciclinius tour,
With void corse, for fear of Phebus light,
Alas, and there hath she no socour,
For she ne found ne sey no maner wight,
And eke as there she had but littel might,
Wherefore her selven for to hide and save,
Within the gate she fledde in to a cave.

Darke was this cave, and smoking as the hell,
Nat but two paas within the yate it stood;
A naturel day in darke I let her dwell;
Now wol I speake of Mars, furious and wood,
For sorow he wold have seene his herte blood,
Sith that he might have done her no company,
He ne rought not a mite for to die.

So feble he wext for hete, and for his wo,
That nigh he swelt, he might unneth endure,
He passeth but a sterre in daies two,
But nevertheles, for al his hevy armure,
He foloweth her that is his lives cure,
For whose departing he tooke greater ire,
Than for his brenning in the fire.

After he walketh softly a paas,
Complaining that it pitie was to here,
He saide, "O lady bright, Venus, alas,
That ever so wide a compas is my sphere,
Alas, whan shall I mete you herte dere?
This twelve dayes of April I endure,
Through jelous Phebus this misaventure."

Now God helpe sely Venus alone,
But, as God wold, it happed for to be,
That while the weping Venus made her mone,
Ciclinius, riding in his chivachee,

Fro Venus Valanus might this palais see,
And Venus he salveth, and maketh chere,
And her receiveth as his frende full dere.

Mars dwelleth forth in his adversite,
Complaining ever in her departing,
And what his complaint was remembreth me,
And therefore in this lusty morowning,
As I best can, I woll it saine and sing,
And after that I woll my leave take,
And God yeve every wight joy of his make.

The Complaint of Mars.

THE order of complaint requireth skilfully,
That if a wight shal plaine pitously,
There mote be cause wherfore that he him plain,
Or men may deme he plaineth folily,
And causeles : alas, that do not I.
Wherfore the ground and cause of al my pain,
So as my troubled witte may it attain,
I wol reherse, not for to have redresse,
But to declare my ground of hevinesse.

The first time, alas, that I was wrought,
And for certain effects hider brought,
By him that lorded each intelligence,
I yave my trew service and my thought,
For evermo, how dere I have it bought,
To her that is of so great excellence,
That what wight that sheweth first her offence,
Whan she is wroth and taketh of him no cure,
He may not long in joy of love endure.

This is no fained mater that I tell,
My lady is the very sours and well
Of beaute, luste, fredome, and gentilnesse,
Of rich array, how dere men it sell,
Of all disport in which men frendly dwell,
Of love and play, and of benigne humblesse,
Of sowne of instruments of al sweetnesse,
And thereto so well fortuned and thewed,
That through the world her goodnes is shewed.

But what availeth such a long sermoun
Of aventures of love up and doun ?

I wol retourne and speaken of my paine;
The point is this, of my distruction,
My right lady, my salvacioun,

Is in affray, and not to whom to plaine;
O herte swete, O lady soveraine,

For your disease I ought wel swoun and swelt,
Though I none other harme ne drede felt.

To what fine made the God that sit so hie,
Beneth him love [or] other companie,
And straineth folke to love mauger hir heed?
And than hir joy, for aught I can espie,
Ne lasteth not the twinckling of an eye,
And some have never joy till they be deed:
What meaneth this what is this mistiheed?
Wherto constraineth he his folke so fast,
Thing to desire, but it should last?

And though he made a lover love a thing,
And maketh it seem stedfast and during,
Yet putteth he in it soch misaventure,
That rest n'is there in his yeving.
And that is wonder, that so just a king
Doth such hardnesse to his creature;
Thus, whether love break or els dure,
Algates he that hath with love to doon,
Hath ofter wo than chaunged is the Moon.

It seemeth he hath to lovers enmite,
And, like a fisher, as men may all day se,
Baited his angle hoke with some pleasance,
Til many a fish is wood, till that he be
Ceased therwith, and than at erst hath he
All his desire, and therwith all mischaunce,
And though the line breke he hath penaunce,
For with that hoke he wounded is so sore,
That he his wages hath for evermore.

The broche of Thebes was of soch kinde,
So full of rubies and of stones of Inde,
That every wight that set on it an eye,
He wende, anone, to worth out of his mind,
So sore the beaute wold his herte bind,
Till he it had, him thought he must die,
And whan that it was his, than should he drie
Soch wo for drede, aye while that he it had,
That welnigh for the feare he should [be] mad.

And whan it was fro his possession,
Than had he double wo and passion,
That he so faire a jewell hath forgo,
But yet this broche, as in conclusion,
Was not the cause of his confusion,
But he that wrought it enfortuned it so,
That every wight that had it shold have wo,
And therfore in the worcher was the vice,
And in the coveitour that was so nice.

So fareth it by lovers, and by me,
For though my lady have so great beaute,
That I was mad till I had gette her grace,
She was not cause of mine adversite,
But he that wrought her, as mote I the,
That put soch a beaute in her face,
That made me coveiten and purchase
Mine owne death, him wite I, that I die,
And mine unwit that ever I clambe so hie.

But to you, hardy knightes of renoune,
Sith that ye be of my devisioune,
Albe I not worthy to so great a name,
Yet saine these clerkes I am your patroune,
Therfore ye ought have some compassion
Of my disease, and take it nat a game,
The proudest of you may be made ful tame,
Wherfore I pray you, of your gentilesse,
That ye complaine for mine heavinesse.

And ye, my ladies, that be true and stable,
By way of kind ye ought to ben able
To have pite of folke that been in paine,
Now have ye cause to cloth you in sable,
Sith that your empresse, the honorable,
Is desolate, wel ought you to plaine,
Now should your holy teares fall and raiue;
Alas, your honour and your emprise,
Nigh dead for drede, ne can her not chevise.

Complaineth eke ye lovers, all in fere,
For her that with unfained humble chere,
Was ever redy to do you socour,
Complaineth her that ever hath be you dere,
Complaineth beaute, freedome, and manere,
Complaineth her that endeth your labour,
Complaineth thilke ensample of al honour,
That never did but gentilnesse,

Kitheth therfore in her some kindnesse.

The Complaint of Venus. THERE n'is so high comfort to my pleasance, Whan that I am in any heavinesse, As to have leiser of remembraunce, Upon the manhood and the worthinesse, Upon the trouth, and on the stedfastnesse, Of him whose I am all, while I may dure, There ought to blame me no creature, For every wight praiseth his gentillesse.

In him is bounte, wisdome, and governaunce,
Wel more than any mans witte can gesse,
For grace hath wolde so ferforth him avance,
That of knighthood he his parfite richesse,
Honour honoureth him for his noblesse,
Thereto so well hath fourmed him nature,
That I am his for ever I him ensure,
For every wight praiseth his gentillesse.
And nat withstanding all his suffisaunce,
His gentil herte is of so great humblesse
To me in word, in werke, and in countenance,
And me to serve is all his besinesse,
That I am sette in very sikernesse ;
Thus ought I blisse well mine aventour,
Sith that him list me serven and honour,
For every wight praiseth his gentillesse.

Now certes, Love, it is right covenable
That men ful dere abie thy noble things,
As wake a bedde, and fasten at the table,
Weping to laugh, and sing in complainings,
And downe to cast visage and lookings,
Often to chaunge visage and countenaunce,
Play in sleeping, and dremen at the daunce,
All the revers of any glad feeling.

Jelousie he hanged by a cable,
She wold al know through her espying,
There doth no wight nothing so reasonable,
That al n'is harme in her imagining,
Thus dere about is Love in yeving,
Which oft he yeveth without ordinaunce,
As sorow ynough, and little of pleasaunce,
All the revers of any glad feling.

A little time his yeft is agreable,
But full accombrous is the using,
For subtel Jelousie, the deceivable,
Full often time causeth distourbing,
Thus ben we ever in drede and suffring,
In no certaine, we languishen in penaunce,

And have well oft many an hard mischance,
All the revers of any glad feling.

But certes, Love, I say not in soch wise,
That for to scape out of your lace I ment,
For I so long have been in your service,
That for to lete, of will, I never assent,
No force, though Jelousie me tourment,
Suffiseth me to see him whan I may,
And therefore, certes, to my ending day,
To love him best shall me never repent.

And certes, Love, whan I me well advise,
Of any estate that man may represent,
Than have ye made me, through your franchise,
Thefe the best that ever in earth went;

Now love well herte, and look thou never stent,
And let the jealous put it in assay,
That for no paine woll I not say nay,
To love him best shall I never repent.
Harte, to thee it ought ynough suffice,
That Love so high a grace to you sent,
To chose the worthies in all wise,
And most agreable unto mine entent,
Seek no ferther, neither way ne went,
Sith ye have suffisaunce unto my pay;
Thus wol I end this complaining or this lay,
To love him best shall I never repent.

LENVOY.

Princes, receiveth this complaining in gree,
Unto your excellent benignite,
Direct after my litel suffisaunce,

For elde, that in my spirite dulleth mee,
Hath of enditing all the subtelte

Welnigh berafte out of my remembraunce:
And eke to me it is a great penaunce,
Sith rime in English hath soch scarcite,
To folow, word by word, the curiosite

Of Graunson, flour of hem that make in Fraunce.

EXPLICIT.

For every true gentle herte free,
That with him is or thinketh for to be,
Againe May now shall have some stering
Or to joy or els to some mourning,
In no season so much, as thinketh me.

For whan they may here the birds sing,
And see the floures and the leaves spring,
That bringeth into hir remembraunce
A manner ease, medled with grevaunce,
And lustie thoughts full of great longing.

And of that longing commeth hevinesse,
And thereof groweth of great sicknesse,
And for lacke of that that they desire,
And thus in May ben hertes set on fire,
So that they brennen forth in great distresse.

I speake this of feeling truly
If I be old and unlusty,

Yet I have felt of the sicknesse through May,
Both hote and cold, and accesse every day,
How sore ywis there wote no wight but I.

I am so shaken with the fevers white,
Of all this May sleepe I but a lite,
And also it is not like to me
That any herte should sleepy be

In whom that Love his firy dart woll smite.

But as I lay this other night waking,
I thought how lovers had a tokening,
And among hem it was a commune tale
That it were good to here the nightingale
Rather than the leud cuckow sing.

And than I thought, anon, as it was day,
I would go some where to assay
If that I might a nightingale here,
For yet had I none heard of all that yere,
And it was tho the third night of May.

And anone, as I the day aspide,
No lenger would I in my bed abide,
But unto a wood that was fast by,

I went forth alone boldely,

And held the way downe by a brooke side,

Till I came to a laund of white and green,
So faire one had I never in been,
The ground was green, ypoudred with daisie,
The floures and the greves like hie,

All greene and white, was nothing els seene.

There sate I downe among the faire flours,
And saw the birds trip out of hir bours,
There as they rested hem all the night,
They were so joyfull of the dayes light,
They began of May for to done honours.

They coud that service all by rote,
There was many a lovely note,
Some song loud, as they had plained,
And some in other manner voice yfained,
And some all out with the full throte.

They proyned hem and made hem right gay,
And daunceden and lepten on the spray,
And evermore two and two in fere,
Right so as they had chosen hem to yere
In Feverere upon saint Valentines day.

And the river that I sate upon,
It made such a noise as it ron,
Accordaunt with the birdes armony,
Me thought it was the best melody
That might ben yheard of any mon.

And for delite, I wote never how,
I fell in such a slomber and a swow,
Nat all asleepe, ne fully waking,

And in that swow, me thought, I hearde sing
The sorry bird, the leud cuckow.

And that was on a tree right fast by,
But who was than evill apaid but I?
"Now God," quod I, "that died on the erois,
Yeve sorrow on thee, and on thy leud vois,
Full little joy have I now of thy cry."

And as I with the cuckow thus gan chide,
I heard in the next bush beside
A nightingale so lustely sing
That with her clere voice she made ring
Through all the greene wood wide.

"Ah, good nightingale," quod I then,
"A little hast thou ben too long hen,
For here hath ben the leud cuckow,
And songen songs rather than hast thou,
I pray to God evill fire her bren."

But now I woll you tell a wonder thing,
As long as I lay in that swouning,
Me thought I wist what the birds ment,
And what they said, and what was hir entent,
And of hir speech I had good knowing.

There heard I the nightingale say,
"Now good cuckow, go somewhere away,
And let us that can singen dwellen here,
For every wight escheweth thee to here,
Thy songs be so elenge, in good fay."

"What," quod she, "what may thee aylen now!
It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou,
For my song is both true and plaine,
And though I cannot crakell so in vaine,
As thou dost in thy throte, I wot never how.

"And every wight may understande mee,
But, nightingale, so may they not done thee,
For thou hast many a nice queint cry,

I have thee heard saine, ocy, ocy,
How might I know what that should be?"

"Ah foole," quod she, "wost thou not what it is,
Whan that I say, ocy, ocy? ywis,
Than meane I that I would wonder faine,
That all they were shamefully yslaine,

That meanen ought againe love amis.

"For lovers ben the folke that ben on live
That most disease have, and most unthrive,
And most endure sorrow, wo, and care,
And least feelen of welfare,

What needeth it ayenst trouth to strive?"

"What!" quod she, "thou art out of thy mind;
How might thou in thy churlenesse find
To speake of Loves servaunts in this wise,
For in this world is none so good servise
To every wight that gentle is of kind.

"For thereof truly commeth all goodnesse,
All honour and all gentlenesse,
Worship, ease, and all hertes lust,
Parfite joy, and full assured trust,
Jolitie, pleasaunce, and freshnesse,
"Lowlyhead, largesse, and curtesie,
Semelyhead, and true companie,
Drede of shame for to done amis :
For he that truly Loves servaunt is,
Were lother be shamed than to die.

"And that this is soth that I sey,
In that beleeve I will live and dey,
And cuckow, so I rede that thou do ywis: "
"Than," quod he, "let me never have blisse,
If ever I unto that counsaile obey.

"Nightingale, thou speakest wonder faire,
But for all that is the sooth contraire,
For love is in yong folke but rage,
And in old folke a great dotage,
Who most it useth, most shall enpaire.

"For thereof cometh disease and hevinesse,
So sorow and care, and many a great sicknesse,
Despite, debate, anger, and envie,
Depraving, shame, untrust, and jelousie,
Pride, mischeefe, poverty, and woodnesse :

"Loving is an office of despaire,
And one thing is therein that is not faire,
For who that getteth of love a little blisse,
But if he be alway therewith, ywis,
He may full soone of age have his haire.

"And nightingale, therefore hold thee nie,
For leve me well, for all thy queint crie,
If thou be ferre or long fro thy make,
Thou shalt be as other that been forsake,
And than thou shalt hoten as doe I."

"Fie," quod she, "on thy name, and on thee!
The god of love ne let thee never ythe,
For thou art worse a thousand fold than wood,
For many a one is full worthy and full good,
That had be naught ne had love ybe.

"For evermore Love his servants amendeth,
And from all evill taches hem defendeth,
And maketh hem to brenne right in a fire,
In trouth and in worshipfull desire,

And whan him liketh, joy inough him sendeth."

"Thou nightingale," he said, "be still,
For Love hath no reason, but it is will,
For oft time untrue folke he easeth,
And true folke so biterly he displeaseth,
That for default of courage he let hem spill.

"With suche a lord wulle I never be,
For he is blinde and may not se;
And when he liethe he not ne when he faylethe;
In his courte full seld trouthe availethe ;
So dyverse and so wilfull ys he."

Than tooke I of the nightingale keepe,
How she cast a sigh out of her deepe,
And said, "Alas, that ever I was bore,
I can for tene not say one word more,'

And right with that word she brast out to weepe.

"Alas," quod she, "my herte woll to breake,
To hearen thus this leud bird speake

Of Love, and of his worshipfull servise.
Now God of love, thou help me in some wise,
That I may on this cuckow been awreake."

Me thoght then that I stert out anon,
And to the broke I ran and gate a ston,
And at the Cuckow hertely I cast;
And he for drede flie awey full fast,
And glad was I when that he was gon.

And evermore the Cuckow, as he fley,
He seid," farewell, farewell, papyngay!"
As thogh he had skorryd thoght of me :
But ay I hunted him fro tre to tre
Till he was fer all out of sight awey.

And than came the nightingale to mee,
And said, "Friend, forsooth I thanke thee,
That thou hast liked me to rescow,
And one avow to Love make I now,
That all this May I woll thy singer be."

I thanked her, and was right well apaied :
"Ye," quod she, "and be thou not dismaied,
Tho thou have herd the cuckow erst than me,
For, if I live, it shall amended be
The next May, if I be not affraied.

"And one thing I woll rede thee also,

Ne leve thou not the cuckow, ne his loves so,
For all that he hath said is strong lesing :"
"Nay," quod I," thereto shall nothing me bring,
For love, and it hath doe me much wo.

"Ye, use," quod she, "this medicine
Every day this May or thou dine,
Go looke upon the fresh daisie,

And though thou be for wo in point to die,
That shall full greatly lessen thee of thy pine.

"And looke alway that thou be good and trew,
And I woll sing one of the songes new
For love of thee, as loud as I may crie :"
And than she began this song full hie,
"I shrew all hem that been of love untrue."

And when she had song it to the end,
"Now farewell," quod she, " for I mote wend,
And god of love, that can right well, and may,
As much joy send thee this day,

As any lover yet he ever send."

Thus taketh the nightingale her leave of me,

I pray to God alway with her be,
And joy of love he send her evermore,
And shilde us fro the cuckow and his lore,
For there is not so false a bird as he.